Star Trek TNG: The Children of Earth
by Wordmangler
Summary: Two travellers from the ends of time meet, both on a journey that will teach them what it means to be human. Seeking answers to the mysterious visions provided by the Mog-Ur, Ayla finds a man who might have the knowledge she seeks about the future of her people, as Picard begins to understand the final lesson imparted by Q about the true nature of exploration.
1. The White Globe

**FORWARD: **Star Trek and Earth's Children? A futuristic space fantasy and a story set in the remote past about cavemen? Your scepticism is understandable... But this isn't some silly wish-fulfilment fic: Star Trek and Earth's Children are, fundamentally, both explorations of what it means to be human. Leaving aside the technological differences, Picard and Ayla are both travellers, both seeking answers about humanity, both driven to learn and discover, to boldly go beyond the known into the unknown.

Background for Non-EC Fans: This was originally written for an EC (Earth's Children) fandom. Just in case there are any Trek fans interested in reading this who don't know EC, it's a book series set in the Palaeolithic, circa 29,000 years ago, and follows the story of Ayla, a Cro-Magnon woman who is raised by Neanderthals, then lives briefly on her own before meeting other modern humans, in particular her lover, Jondalar.

The Neanderthals, known in EC as the Clan, are not able to talk, but some of them do have the drug-enhanced ability to project their minds back into the remote past, or even into the future, in vague glimpses. Ayla made the mistake of taking this drug, the Root, at one of their sacred ceremonies, and it gave her a vision into the far future, to the present day and even beyond. This story takes that to examine just what she was seeing, and why. The first two paragraphs of the story in italics are taken from the original, in order to set the scene.

Note for Non-Trek Fans: in an effort to get the Trek bit as realistic as possible, I have made several references to at times rather obscure topics. Some I had to look up actually. Don't worry about them if you don't get them: they're not intrinsic to the plot, save one, which will be fully explained later on.

This Trekfic is set a few months after the series finale of TNG, just so I can reference basically anything I like, but mainly so I can not worry about it taking place in the middle of a canon adventure. The first TNG film, Generations, is set in very early 2371. This is autumn (in France) 2370.

Note for EC Purists: I have taken a few minor liberties with the spiritual beliefs of the Zels to make them less monotheistic (which I consider unrealistic) and more animistic like normal hunter-gatherer societies. The Mother is still there, and still prime, but no longer alone. That is, I have expanded the few references to 'spirits' as required.

**.**

* * *

**1. The White Globe**

_Tall rectangular shapes stabbing out of the ground, studded with a myriad glowing fires along their sides, great black mountains full of tiny hearths. Far, far below, the ground ablaze with rivers of fire, white and red, cascading between the darkened cliffs. They whirled and spun, surrounding her in a sudden cacophony of noise, and then she was floating among the stars in ethereal silence, great coloured columns of cloud rising up before her, and strange streaks of light flashing in front of her, smooth oval objects that came and went so fast she could barely glimpse them. _

_Then the great pillars of dust resolved themselves, stars wheeled and collected, and out of the void appeared a craggy, deeply scarred face, the face of a man with but one eye, shining in the darkness under a massive brow ridge. My child, the man said to her. Ayla, where you go, I cannot follow. All children must grow up one day. All children must leave their hearth…._

"Creb!" Ayla's eyes flew open. She breathed deeply, seeing the familiar walls of her room under the great abri. Her heart still pounding, she lay back and looked up at the smoke-darkened rock that was the ceiling of all the members of the Ninth Cave. She shivered slightly. Winter was approaching, and the shallow shelter of stone was not as heat-efficient as a real cave or a Mamutoi earthlodge. The sleeping baby next to her stirred, and Ayla smiled. Pushing the dark visions out of her mind, she gently stroked the young girl's soft skin. Even in her moments of greatest fear and doubt, her child was always a source of strength and joy.

"I'm so blessed to have you, my darling Jonayla," she whispered. "You're a strong girl, like your mother. You'll survive the winter easily."

A brief frown crossed her face as she thought of the dangers of winter, the worst season for infant mortality. It was not uncommon for food supplies to run dangerously low towards the end of winter, and the weak often were not able to survive. But not here, not among the Zelandonii. This was not just one cave of a few dozen people: there were hundreds here, pooling resources and abilities. There was nothing to fear here. So why was she shaking?

Ayla slipped out of the warm sleeping furs, and dressed quickly. Pulling on a long pair of leather leggings, she followed that with a light leather tunic, and a parka of hides stitched together in a pleasing pattern over the top. Then she put on her boots, wrapping long cords around them and up her legs. She then gathered together her tea herbs, and in a few moments had two steaming cups ready.  
The large bundle of fur on the other sleeping platform stirred, and moaned. A tousled blond head appeared, and sniffed the air, followed by a long torso. Jondalar smiled, and sat up.

"How do you do it, Ayla," he said wonderingly. "How do you know just when I will wake up?"

"Experience," Ayla said happily, pleased as always by his simple wonder. "I can tell by the sound of your breathing, by the little noises you make, by the way you shift under the furs."

"You are amazing, you know that," Jondalar said as he blew on the tea. He didn't really need to, as Ayla was always able to time it so that it was ready to drink by the time he awoke.

"Winter is coming," Ayla said seriously.

"I noticed," Jondalar agreed, pulling the furs over his bare shoulders. "It's definitely colder this morning."

"I was thinking of going out later with Whinney to try for some birds," Ayla said. "The longer we can put off using our stores, the better."

"Should be all right," the tall man grunted, putting down the empty bowl. While they had been talking, Ayla had been heating up a stew with hot rocks, and she now poured it out into two bowls. Using their fingers, they began to eat.

"I want to get some more work done on that spear point I'm making," Jondalar said casually. "Might be able to trade it for some good quality hides. Some deer perhaps."

"That's fine for us, but I want to use rabbit fur for some winter clothes for the baby," Ayla said. "They're just the right size, and with their winter coat they're nice and warm."

"Sounds good. Maybe we can get a few extras to trade with as well. Your tanning is among the best in the entire Zelandonii, and everyone knows it. Those fl – Clan people – sure knew a thing or two about working leather."

Ayla blushed. Compared to the wondrously soft hides made by the people who had raised her, her own were stiff and uncomfortable. She was surprised that Jondalar's people were not as advanced in tanning as the Clan were, since they were so far ahead in other things, especially flint knapping. But the people known as the Clan had been living at the fringes of the ice for tens of millennia, whereas as her own ancestors were relatively new to the deadly cold of an Ice Age winter, and their experience with fur and leather was correspondingly less.

"Is Jonayla awake?" Jondalar asked, setting aside his empty bowl.

"Sound asleep," Ayla said, smiling. "She was a bit fractious last night, but eventually dropped off."

"Oh? I didn't notice."

"No, you didn't," Ayla said pointedly. Jondalar was about to object, but then he caught sight of her grinning face, and laughed.

"I suppose I had a bit much barma last night," he admitted. "But you have to admit, getting news of Joplaya's successful birth was a cause for celebration."

"I know," Ayla said. "I was worried about her, about the birth. It was a relief when the runner from the Lazandonii arrived. I couldn't go myself, not with Jonayla just born."

"Have you given any more thought to Zelandoni's offer?" Jondalar asked, suddenly serious.

A frown crossed Ayla's face. "I don't know," she said sadly. "I feel like I have an obligation, but all I want is to be with you and our child, to be the woman of your hearth, to watch my children grow up and have children of their own."

"But you can still do that even as One Who Serves," Jondalar gently pointed out.

"Not in the same way," Ayla replied. "I would have too many responsibilities, too many worries."

"Too little freedom," Jondalar added darkly, his brow furrowed. His mate had always lived her life the way she felt she needed to. Even among the Clan, she had been unable to fully conform. He had hoped that here, among his kith and kin, and the extended Zelandonii community, she wouldn't have to worry about that, that they would accept her and let her be. But it did not look as if that were the case. Already there were factions developing, between those that saw her as tainted with the filth of the flatheads, and those that saw her as a magnificent healer and spiritual leader. People like Marona and Ladroman, not to mention Zelandoni the Fourteenth, felt threatened by her, but even his own family was not as completely accepting as he had hoped. He passed a hand over his brow, feeling the corrugations. Why was Zelandoni the First so eager for Ayla to become One Who Serves? Why couldn't she just let his mate live the life of peace she had always craved? He was afraid that if pushed too hard, Ayla would want to leave – to go back to the Mamutoi perhaps. She didn't have the connections here that he did – all places were alike to her.

Ayla's voice broke in on his mediation.

"Can you look after Jonayla while I'm gone? I need to have a bath as well – it's the first sunny weather in days, and I want to wash my clothes."

"What if she wakes up though?"

"She shouldn't wake up for a few hours yet – that's why I want to leave now. It won't take long to get some rabbits and ptarmigan, and I should be back before the shadows are their shortest."

"Good hunting then, my most perfect mate," Jondalar said, his deep blue eyes gazing at her. "Our evening meal will be a good, one, I know."

Ayla smiled, drawn by their warmth and depth.

"We should make tonight special, in honour of Joplaya's new baby," she said, moving her hips in a way that made it quite clear what she meant.

"Woman, you are amazing," Jondalar said sincerely, feeling a sudden ache in his loins for her. That she could still do that to him with nothing more than a suggestive glance and sensual wriggle was amazing – he knew every inch of her body, more intimately even than she knew herself, and yet he never tired of it. But above all else, it was her smile that drove him mad with desire – her smile transformed her from a beautiful woman to a goddess. Mother, let me never lose her, he prayed as he watched her walk down the well-worn path to the river.

Ayla finished rinsing the last of the soaproot out of the leather tunic, and laid it over the rocks to dry beside her leggings. She had walked upriver a little way, not for privacy, but to avoid the fish traps set in the current. Easing herself in, she dipped her head under the water, experience having taught her that the best way to stand cold water was to get the head wet. The river was cold, but not as cold as many she had bathed in, and nothing like the nightmarish crossing of the Sister she and Jondalar had made on their Journey here. She still could barely believe they had made it across alive.

Ayla worked some soaproot saponin into her hair and scrubbed with her fingertips. She was still meaning to try to make the ash and lye cleaning cake that the Losadunii had, but she simply had not had time to experiment. Zelandoni was teaching her the traditions and histories of her new people, and there was a lot to learn – and to fit into raising a baby and taking care of a hearth. She rinsed her hair out, and started on her body. She had lost the small amount of fat she had gained when pregnant, but stretch marks were still faintly visible on her tanned skin. She realised with a start that she had also lost muscle tone – she had not been getting as much exercise as usual when carrying the baby. But even then, the work she was required to do with the Zelandonii was nowhere near as physically taxing as it had been when she was living with the Clan, or when she was on her own and hauling chunks of butchered animal carcass around.

Humming a Mamutoi hunting song, rather off-key, Ayla finished washing herself, and sat out on the rocks to air dry, after pushing as much water off with her hands as possible. She was lying back in the warm morning sun looking up at the sky when she became aware of a shadow over her.

"Oh, hello Marthona," she said, looking up at the older woman.

"Jondalar said you'd gone to bathe," Marthona said. She squatted down on the ground next to the young blonde woman. Ayla's nudity didn't bother either of them – living in such close quarters, with so little privacy, there was no embarrassment about being seen naked, and Ayla didn't even think of covering herself. To Earth's Children, a body was just something that was there, to be covered when cold and uncovered when hot, no more offensive than their hands or faces.

"He said you're still not happy about being One Who Serves…" the older woman added.

Ayla sat up, hugging her knees to her chest. "It's not really that," she began after a short pause. "I know I must become one – I know I cannot cheat destiny. In fact, I really do want to become one, if for nothing more than to honour Creb and Mamut. I know the calling is a noble one. I do not object to that at all. It's just…." She trailed off awkwardly, and looked over at the river, seeing it sparkle.

"Do you doubt your abilities?" Marthona asked gently.

"No, I know I have the talent," Ayla said. "It's not that."

Marthona smiled. Ayla's bluntness was a refreshing change after the at times too elaborate formalities of Zelandonii communication. Growing up in a culture where it was literally impossible to lie meant that she was still uncomfortable with distorting the truth, even when she knew there were times it was required by Zelandonii etiquette.

"What is it then?" she probed.

"it's…a feeling, a – what is the word? When you know something will happen?"

"A premonition?" Marthona asked.

"Yes," Ayla said, annoyed with herself for not knowing the word. She repeated it mentally to herself a few times, fitting it in linguistic context with the thousands of other Zelandonii words she knew. "Has Jondalar or Zelandonii said anything to you about my dreams, about my visions using the Root?"

Marthona nodded. The knowledge of the root that the flatheads – that the Clan – used was kept as secret as possible. Only she and Zelandoni knew of it, and Zelandoni wanted it kept that way. It was an extremely powerful substance, and Zelandoni had made it clear how dangerous she felt it could be.

"I have these fears," Ayla continued. "These recurring visions, premonitions perhaps, that happen when I use the Root, and sometimes even when I do not. Sometimes they are shown to be true. Like the flash flood on our Journey here. So…I, I worry that they all will be."

"Like the one of your son?" Marthona asked gently. She briefly recalled her shock on hearing of Ayla's son, a child of mixed spirits, neither pure human nor animal. Since then she had been able to realise that the Clan were not in fact animals, and had even realised that she herself had always known that – that it was precisely because they were not animals that they were hated so much. She was curious about Ayla's son Durc, and saddened that they had been parted. It had been hard enough on her when Jondalar and Thonolan left on their Journey, and now that Thonolan walked with the spirits, she could feel Ayla's pain.

"That is one of the worst," Ayla admitted eventually. "I fear for the future of the Clan. But it is another that makes me fear for the future of us all – Clan, Mamutoi, Zelandonii, and all the others of Earth's children."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Ayla shook her head. "No," she whispered. "Not now, not yet. But I'm afraid that if I become One Who Serves then I will see it all – that I will given knowledge of our destruction…the Mother leaving us…and that somehow I will be its cause."

Marthona's eyes widened. She knew better than to take Ayla's words lightly. The tall blonde beauty was not one to exaggerate for dramatic effect. If she was worried about something, then there was something to worry about.

"Have you told Zelandoni?" Marthona eventually asked.

"No. Not yet. I need to sort this out on my own," Ayla said. She stood up, and felt her clothing. The leather was almost dry. She began to get dressed.

"We are always here for you, Ayla," Marthona said. "We are your family now. Do not forget that, please."

Ayla nodded, tying on her boots and picking up her spear-thrower and the leather quiver of short light spears it used. "Thank you, Marthona. It is good to talk."

"Good hunting, mate of my son."

The older woman watched as Ayla walked away, and sighed. Why did such a young woman have to bear such a burden? Why had the Mother singled her out with such gifts that only gave her pain? Marthona shook her head. Such things were best left to the Ones Who Serve to ponder, not the likes of her. The older woman sat down on the sun-warmed rock and watched the waters of the river flow down to their destiny.

* * *

_Captain's Personal Log, Stardate 48421.05, the year AD 2370 by the Standard Revised Gregorian Calendar of Earth. The Enterprise is undergoing engine modifications at the Utopia Planitia shipyards orbiting Mars. Commander LaForge and Dr Leah Brahms are attempting to incorporate some of the Kozinsky Equations into the matter-antimatter reaction control matrices. At Dr Crusher's insistence, I am using the time for some long-delayed shore leave. Commander Data and I are headed towards Earth, he to present a paper at the Daystrom Institute on creating emotional resonance pathways in positronic nets based on the new emotion chip he received from his brother Lore, whilst I have accepted an invitation by Professor Auguste Tryphon of the Lascaux Institute to visit the hallowed halls of our distant ancestors, a rare honour._

"Tea. Earl Grey. Hot." Picard took the steaming cup from the replicator, and returned to his seat.

"I find it interesting, Captain, how humans can be so mechanical at times." Data commented, observing his captain dispassionately.

"How so, Commander?"

"I have observed you order tea from the replicators two hundred and twenty-three times over the last seven years, and each time you use precisely the same words, with the same intonation and timing. In fact there is less than six per cent difference between variables."

"Well, perhaps we're not so different, Data," Picard mused, sipping his tea. "The French architect LeCourbiser once called a house 'a machine for living'. Perhaps that better describes humans, however. After all, mechanics is all about efficiency, and so is evolution."

"But evolution is not as efficient as engineering, sir," Data countered.

"No, not in the short term perhaps," Picard agreed. "But over the millennia, through blind trial and error, it has succeeded in producing some remarkable machines." He looked at his hand, and flexed his fingers, studying how they moved. "There are some who say that the Earth is like a giant laboratory for DNA-based engineering, one that operates on a scale we cannot truly begin to comprehend."

"That is at best merely an analogy sir, since a laboratory presupposes an intellect guiding and directing the experiments."

"True enough, Mr Data," Picard murmured, looking out the window at the great blue globe ahead. "But still, remember Professor Galen's research – and those ancient humanoids that seeded the galaxy with their DNA. So in some respects there was an intelligence directing the experiments, or at least setting them up."

"Coming out of warp sir," Data interjected.

The starfield resolved itself into the familiar patterns of Earth's constellation, and as Data swung the shuttle around on its descent trajectory a great blue and white globe filled the screen. Picard saw it, and a faint smile briefly lit up his face. It was always good to return home, especially now that his nephew was growing old enough to take a real interest in Starfleet. He was down there, somewhere, under the cloud cover that obscured France. Picard put down his tea, and sighed contentedly.

"There it is, Data. Mother Earth. Just think: that fragile ball hanging there in space is where all of humanity's art and science and civilisation grew up. It is the womb and the cradle of the billions of humans across the Federation, even though many may never see it."

"I find it strange how humans refer to the Earth as their mother," Data commented after a short but precisely-calculated pause. "You evolved and grew up there, but beings do not refer to their residence as their mother, but rather the one that created them. And the Earth did not create you; your parents and ancestors did."

"The term comes from the idea that the Earth is the source from which all life sprang, Data, not just humans. It is a world-view that sees humans as just another one of the Earth's offspring, no more unique or privileged than whales or horses or trees. It used to be thought that the idea of an earth mother came from the early farming communities, but some of the very earliest known human art is of obviously pregnant and thus fertile human females, and it is hypothesized that they represent some sort of spiritual or religious ideas of the female divine."

"Fascinating," Data said. "And do these—"

He was cut off but a sudden loud warning from the alarm, and at the same time the shuttle lurched sideways faster than the inertial dampers could compensate, throwing the two Starfleet officers to the floor. There was a blinding flash, and a sharp internal wrench as reality seemed to flicker and then stabilize.

"Status, Mr Data!" Picard called as soon as he could sit up.

Data leapt to the control panel, and quickly scanned it. "It looks like we were caught in a chronowave eddy," he said.

"What? How could that happen?"

"Scanning." Data's hands skimmed over the touch-sensitive controls of the craft, accessing and correlating data. "An unshielded chronodrive was activated at this precise point in the local relativity matrix," he said. "We were caught in its wake and pulled off course."

"Off course? Where are we?" Picard said, looking out at the rapidly-growing globe still hanging in front of him. It looked the same, but there was something he couldn't quite put his finger on, something different.

"Not where, Captain. When. Analysis of stellar cartography puts us at…roughly thirty thousand years in the past."

"The Ice Age!" Picard suddenly knew what was wrong with the earth. The massive area of shining white he had thought was cloud was in fact the huge ice sheet that covered the top third of the northern hemisphere. They were too close to see the southern, but he knew that it too would have its own covering of ice and snow. "Is there any contact on subspace? Can you get any messages out?"

"Negative, sir."

"Merde," Picard swore softly. "Never mind. Find us a place to put down and we'll wait for someone to pick us up. Shouldn't be too hard for them to track us."

"No sir," Data added. "However we may not have much choice about the landing site."

"What do you mean?"

"The accident has damaged the impulse drive, sir. We are going to crash."

.

* * *

**NOTES:**

TNG is not actually my favourite Trek (DS9 by a lightyear, no question) but Picard is the best choice for the Palaeolithic given his interest in archaeology. Kirk would end up trying to seduce Ayla, Sisko would probably get even more visions from the Mother (aka the Cave Aliens) than Ayla, and Janeway would immediately start walking back even if it took 30,000 years.

Extra note for non-EC fans (again, assuming any are reading): "Zelandonii" is the name of the tribe. "Zelandoni" is the title of the spiritual leaders of that tribe.

"Auguste Tryphon" is taken from Professor Calculus's orginal French name (Tryphon Tournesol) and his inspiration (Auguste Piccard).


	2. A Meeting of Two Peoples

**2. A Meeting of Two Peoples**

Ayla rode her horse out onto the wide ice age steppes, the great fertile grasslands that sustained an extraordinary abundance of life. She trotted along gently for a while, following the natural curves of the landscape. She had no particular destination in mind: many birds used the long grass for nesting, and so could be found anywhere. All she had to do was wait, and be alert.

A sudden movement made her start, the sling already moving. But she checked her throw – it was only a sparrow. Far too small for a decent meal, and too many bones. Perhaps they would be glad of them later, as food stocks dwindled, but not just yet. She rode on for another period of time, the sun slowly rising in the clear south-eastern sky, burning away the morning chill. She heard a brief clap of distant thunder, but paid no attention – it was far too far away to worry about.

She caught another movement, and this time let fly. Two fat birds thudded to the ground in quick succession. Wolf bounded up to them, where he stood guard over his mistress's kill. Ayla slipped off Whinney and quickly gathered the ptarmigans up, binding them together at the neck with a long leather cord before she slung them over her back and remounted. Two was a good start, but she wanted at least ten, and some rabbits as well. Ones in their white winter coats would be best, and fetch the highest trading values. White was the most precious colour among the peoples of the Stone Age, for it was rarest and purest.

Then she saw it – a flash of ivory darting through the grass. The change of seasons was the most dangerous time for the animals that changed their coat, as a slight discrepancy between weather and appearance meant that their camouflage worked in the opposite way, making them more visible. Ayla whipped her sling around her head and the rabbit gave a yelp as it died. She dismounted and walked up to it, her flint knife out.

Suddenly a great crashing boom echoed over the plains. Ayla ducked instinctively, and looked up at the sky. It was clear, with high thin white clouds. But there was one cloud that was far longer and thinner than the others, arcing across half the sky. She had never seen one like it before. But the sound had not come from there. She stood up, and looked around, trying to remember. Yes…it was from over there, behind the ridge. She quickly slit the rabbit's throat, trying to keep the fur as clean as possible, and then she remounted Whinney, and trotted over the hill, Wolf at her side. What she found on the other side was unlike anything she had ever experienced.

A great wound had been torn open in the ground, like a claw ripping up the earth itself. At the far end something pale sat, glowing brightly at one end with green fire. Fear and curiosity battled within the young woman, and she clutched her amulet nervously. Was this a sign from her totem, the greatest yet? What did it mean to see this huge wound, this giant slash in the Mother Earth herself, just at the time that she was being pressured to become One Who Serves? Was this encouragement…or a warning?

Her heart beating fast, she headed to the far end. There was a strange smell in the air, bitter and sharp. The air was deathly still, the birds and animals having been frightened into silence. But as she drew nearer to the large object at the end, she could hear a thin high-pitched humming. It was not very loud, but in its steady pulse she was reminded of the bullroarer used at the Clan Gathering to summon the Great Bear Deity Ursus himself, and she felt fear. She would go no closer – her totem, or the Mother, would not send her a sign that brought on such fear unless it were indeed a warning.

She turned from the object, and headed directly away from it, riding faster and faster. After a few moments the sturdy steppe horse tired, and Ayla allowed her to slow to a canter. Something terrible is about to happen, she thought. The Mother is being attacked – she may be dying. We need to save her – I need to talk with Zelandoni; find out what this might mean. It was then that she noticed the two figures standing in the middle of the grasslands.

* * *

"Captain! Captain!"

Picard heard the words as if from a deep dark velvet hole. His brain slowly pieced the sounds together and processed them.

"Captain Picard, can you hear me?"

He opened his eyes. He was lying on his back, on the ground, with Data leaning over him.

"Commander…. What happened?"

"I was unable to land the craft successfully, sir. It crashed six-point-seven kilometres from here. There was an explosion just as I activated the emergency transporters, and your right fibula is cracked."

"So that's what the pain is," Picard grimaced, suddenly feeling it. Data opened the medkit and took out a hypospray. Pressing it to the captain's collar, he injected a standard dose of painkillers. The relief was almost immediate, but not total. But Picard didn't mind: he could think clearly again.

"Where are we, Mr Data?"

"Technically, sir, we are in France, near the river Vezere."

"Vezere…why do I know that name?" Picard mused. "Of course! Lascaux!"

"Sir?"

"Lascaux, the caves – the ice age art! Well, well, Mr Data, we're actually right where we were headed – only thirty millennia before we were supposed to get here!"

"Correct, captain. However at this stage the cave system at Lascaux was not yet painted."

"No, you're right," Picard said, his face falling. For one wild moment he had yearned to go there, to see the caves as they were when freshly painted, to experience them as they had been meant to be seen – alone, in the flickering light of a torch, seeing the first feeble glowings of art and culture, the first tentative steps towards Rembrandt and Picasso and Qin Shixia, a small beacon lost in the vast untamed wildness of the Palaeolithic. He sighed, then pulled himself together and sat up.

"Can you stand, captain?" Data asked, his face shifting smoothly into a finely-judged expression of concern.

"We'll find out in a moment," Picard said. "Help me up."

Holding onto the android, Picard hauled himself to his feet and gingerly tested his weight. Pain shot through him, and he winced. No, this was a bad idea. Even if he could cope with the pain, the leg was still severely damaged, and walking on it would only worsen it. Holding onto Data's shoulder, he looked around the area. They were on a wide, gently rolling prairie, studded with small trees. The sun was high in the sky and warm, but the wind was cold.

"Well, Mr Data," Picard said grimly. "Looks like we'll need to find shelter. Can't spend the night in the open, not out here alone."

"Captain," Data said softly, looking past Picard to the grasslands. "We are not alone."

* * *

Ayla slowed, and walked Whinney up to the men, slipping a spear into her atlatl, but keeping it out of sight. She did not know these men, and their clothing was strange. One, the elder, was wearing a tight-fitting tunic and leggings of red and black, while the younger one was in a similar costume of yellow and black. As she drew nearer, she could also see that his skin had a strange hue to it, a golden sheen that she was not familiar with.

She stopped about a hundred paces from the two men, watching them, whispering calming words to Whinney. Wolf growled at the horse's feet, and she silenced him with a quick command. She sat easily astride her mount, and waited. The older man opened his arms out, palms up, showing no surprise or fear of her horse. Ayla backed off a few steps, then held her ground as he continued to stand there, his face in a gentle smile. She could see he was unarmed, and this reassured her. Indeed, the only things he seemed to be carrying were a few pouches at his waist. He was being supported by the younger man, and seemed lame. At his age, that was not surprising. He did not seem like a threat at all, however. Cautiously, she urged Whinney forwards. She stopped when she had halved the distance between them. The man smiled, and spoke. But his words were a fluid stream of sound that conveyed nothing to her.

"In the name of Doni the Great Earth Mother, I greet you," Ayla called out, hoping they understood Zelandonii. She repeated her words in Mamutoi, but to no effect.

The older man, whom she could see was almost entirely bald, looked puzzled. It almost seemed to Ayla as if he had expected to understand her, yet could not. He spoke again, his words flowing into one another like song.

"I do not understand your language, stranger," Ayla said. "You must have come from far away. Do not be afraid of the horse and the wolf: they are my companions, and will not hurt you." She didn't know if anything she said could be understood, but hoped her tone would be. When she had been learning Mamutoi in the earthlodge, she could often tell what someone was saying from their tone, even if many of the words were unfamiliar. And indeed, the strange man seemed to understand she meant them no harm. He smiled again, and pointed at his chest.

"Pi-kaad" Ayla heard him say. "Day-tah" he added, gesturing at his companion.

Ayla nodded in understanding. "Ayla," she said, pointing at herself. "Ayla." She didn't try and give her lineage, as she knew it would not be understood. Not yet.

"Aye-la," the man replied, smiling, then added something else to his companion, who replied briefly. The older man looked puzzled, and shook his head. The younger man said something more, and Pi-kaad nodded, and faced Ayla once more.

"Ayla…talk, talk much," he said. Ayla was astounded. How did he know those words? Pi-kaad repeated his request, and Ayla suddenly realised he wanted her to talk. Why? What could she say? Perhaps he just wanted to hear her tone, she decided.

"My name is Ayla, formerly of the Clan and the Mamutoi, who live far to the east of here, but now of the Zelandonii, and mated to Jondalar, son of the mate of the leader of the Ninth Cave. This is Whinney, and Wolf." She gave Whinney's name in Zelandonii, and Wolf's in Mamutoi.

"Greetings, Ayla," Pi-kaad said. "I am leader Jean-Luc Picard of the star boat Enterprise. We come in peace."

Ayla looked at him, puzzled. The word he had used for 'leader' was the term for the commander of an exploration or hunting party, yet these men did not look like hunters. Where were their spears, where were their companions? And what did the words 'star' and 'boat' mean together?

"Welcome in peace, Picard," Ayla replied.

"This is sub-leader Data," Picard said, gesturing to his companion. Again, the phrasing was unusual to Ayla's ears, and she thought she detected a strange echo to his words, as if he were speaking in a small cave.

"I greet you, Ayla of the Zelandonii," the man named Data replied smoothly. "We did not mean to disturb you. We were on a trip, and got lost."

"If you would like to return with me to the Ninth Cave, I am sure there are people there who can give you directions," Ayla said.

"That won't be necessary, Ayla," Picard said. "We have somewhere we can go. It was an honour to meet you," he finished, looking at her with an unreadable expression.

"Farewell, travellers," Ayla said. "May the Mother watch over you."

"Thank you." The elderly man turned, and winced. Ayla could tell at once that he was injured, and her medicine woman instincts rose over all others.

"Wait. You are hurt," she said.

"It's nothing," Picard grunted.

"It is not nothing," Ayla said, getting down from Whinney. She went up to him, surprised at how short he was. He had seemed taller from further away, but up close he was about a fist shorter than she was. She scanned him quickly with a practised gaze. There was something very suspicious about the way he was holding his leg, something that wasn't mere lameness or old age. "Your leg is broken! You cannot walk in that condition! Come back to the Ninth Cave with me and let me treat you."

"No, that really isn't a good idea," Picard said. "Commander Data can assist me."

Picard was grateful that the woman was friendly, but he didn't want to risk violating the Prime Directive, least of all with his own ancestors. Contact with pre-warp civilisations was strictly controlled, in order to allow them to develop naturally, and the thought of what could happen to the time line if anything he or Data did caused history to unfold differently on Earth gave him a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. The Universal Translators sometimes could be more a hindrance than a help, he decided, not for the first time. It had taken the devices a while to establish a pattern sequence, as the vocabulary and syntax of the Ice Age was only remotely connected to modern languages, but if they had failed, that would at least have allowed them to remain apart from this world.

"Captain," Data said, "I could carry you to the shuttle but the radiation levels are too high for prolonged exposure. We cannot remain out here – it will probably drop below freezing at night. Perhaps we should follow this woman to her people to treat you properly." He took out the medical tricorder again and scanned Picard's leg once more. "The swelling is worse, Captain. We must get you treated, and sheltered."

"Very well," Picard said reluctantly. In truth, he was far from disappointed. He was eager to use what opportunity he had to study these people, and learn more about the vanished cultures of the Ice Age. "But we must be prudent, Mr Data, and not, uh, burden our hosts unnecessarily, if you take my meaning."

"I understand, sir," Data said, finishing his scan and putting the tricorder away.

Ayla had not followed all of the conversation, and had no idea what the object Data was holding was. She presumed it was a small shamanic token, a representation of the Mother perhaps, from its squat cylindrical shape. But she didn't need that to know what a broken leg looked like. The Clan hunting technique required them to get in close to big game, and injuries were common. As a result the Clan medicine women were highly adept at treating broken limbs, and Ayla was after all a fully-trained medicine woman of the Clan. This was her domain.

"I am taking him back to the Ninth Cave," she announced. "I am a healer, and can fix him. Data, I will require some bark from that tree over there. Here is a knife."

Data took the proffered flint knife with hesitation, but ran over to the lone tree nearby at an impressive pace. Ayla hurried back to Whinney, and pulled out some spare cords to bind the bark splint with. She didn't bother scouring the area for healing plants, as they were close to the Ninth Cave and all she needed was there, in her living area. When the sallow-faced man was back with a large armful of bark she quickly and expertly applied it to Picard's leg, wrapping it around tightly with the cord. At the same time Data gave him another shot of painkillers, as well as some sedatives.

"Where is the Ninth Cave, Ayla?" he asked. Ayla pointed.

"If you can help get him onto Whinney, she can carry him back," she said. She looked at Picard's face. The man was breathing shallowly, his face pale, but he seemed lucid and not about to go into shock. She was impressed with his fortitude. Few men could be so strong with a broken leg. That Doni figure must be a powerful charm, she thought.

Data bent down and lifted Picard up easily. "I can carry him more smoothly than the horse," he said.

"It's a long walk to the cave," Ayla warned. "Perhaps you should let Whinney take him."

"I do not tire," Data said simply. Ayla arched an eyebrow, but kept silent. He was obviously devoted to his leader, and she would let him carry the injured man as long as he safely could. Keeping an eye on him, she whistled for Wolf, and the small group started back to the river valley.

.

* * *

**NOTES:**

It was quite tricky actually working out a way for the immovable object of the Prime Directive and Picard's sense of duty with the irresistible force of Ayla's need to heal him and my own need to have them go to the Ninth Cave. I'm not totally happy with the solution, but I was sick of trying different things, and didn't want to start from scratch.

"Rembrandt and Picasso and Qin Shixia" is a Trekkian staple: depict the future by referencing two things we know and one we don't, preferably not too Eurocentric. "Qin Shixia" (秦世霞) is made up.


	3. The Great Abri

**3. The Great Abri**

Ayla was amazed at the stamina of the younger man. He showed no sign of slowing, stumbling, or even perspiring. He simply kept carrying Picard's limp body in a smooth, unhurried pace, holding him stable and level. The Ice Age woman had no way of knowing of the billions of calculations per second that were enabling the android to compensate instantly for the slightest change in terrain to maintain Picard at a constant height above the ground calculated to three decimal places. She only knew what she could see, and it was impressive. Her own endurance was almost legendary, but she was nothing compared to this man. Not even the Clan were.

The sun had passed its zenith and was well on its way down towards its western home when they came to the lip of the steep valley wall, and made their way down a well-used path. They came to a river, and Ayla led the way downstream for a while before a great cliff loomed up before them, topped with a massive stone that seemed frozen in time, forever on the verge of falling.

Picard had spent most of the journey in a painkiller-induced haze, but now he was fully alert. Despite his misgivings about being taken to the woman's home, he was fascinated by the sights and sounds and smells around him. He looked around eagerly as they drew up to the huge shallow cave that seemed to be Ayla's home. It sloped slightly up towards the rear, and was full of low stone enclosures that Picard guessed designated individual housing units. Smoke issued from the tops of many, and he realised that they were unroofed. _Why bother_, he thought, _when the vast rock shelter does the job so well?_

As they entered the cave, numerous people stopped what they were doing and stared at them. Picard felt self-conscious, carried like a baby in Data's arms, and acutely aware of how unusual his clothing must seem to these people. _Just as well I didn't bring Worf_, he thought with a smile, then grimaced as Data gently lowered him onto a bed of soft furs inside one of the stone huts.

Ayla lost no time in getting to work, but the other man stopped her.

"I am able to treat him with greater efficiency," he said. "I have brought items with healing powers and powerful medicines." He indicated the smooth bag slung over his shoulder.

"I can heal him with what I have here," Ayla said, slightly annoyed that he seemed to be casting doubt on her abilities.

"What I have is better," Data said. "You must allow me to use it."

"What knowledge do you have of healing?" Ayla asked suspiciously.

"Considerable," Data replied truthfully. "It is likely that I know more than you do."

"Ayla," Picard said weakly. "Mr Data is only trying to help."

_Data…is that a real name_, Ayla thought to herself. _It's certainly an unusual name. It sounds like the word for 'facts', or 'knowledge'. Maybe he is a great and powerful healer among his own people_. She examined Picard's face again, and felt the steady pulse of his heart through the unusual material of his tunic. He should survive without immediate treatment, she decided.

"Very well. You may treat this man. He is, after all, one of you," she acquiesced. Data nodded, and opened his bag. Then he stopped, and looked back at her.

"I am afraid I must ask you to leave this enclosure," he said.

"Leave? Why must I leave?" Ayla demanded.

"Our…religious beliefs forbid any outsider from witnessing our healing ceremonies," Picard said, unhappy at the untruth, but knowing it was necessary to keep Ayla from seeing Federation technology.

"You are lying," Ayla said, her temper rising. Who did these men think they were? They doubted her abilities as a healer, and now lied to her to get her to leave her own hearth!

"Lying? Why do you say that?" Picard asked nervously.

"I grew up with…a people who communicated by signs," Ayla said. "When the entire body is used to create speech, it becomes impossible to lie, for the body would betray the lie. As yours has."

"I see," Picard said grimly. He tried to focus his mind against the pain, using an old Vulcan mental ritual taught to him by Sarek, Spock's father. Did it really matter if she saw the technology? She lived in a world governed by magic, spirits, and superstitions. Wouldn't she just dismiss it as more magic? And even if she didn't accept it, they were too far in the past for any real effect – the economic and political structure of the time would not allow any real changes. Humans here were still dominated by their environment, which had created a fantastically stable culture that outlasted any single civilisation since.

"You may stay," he said at last. "But do not be alarmed at the… magic you will see."

Ayla nodded, confused. She had detected a slight twitch of his eye when he said 'magic', but why? All healers, both physical like Iza, and spiritual like Creb and Mamut, used magic, after all. Was this dangerous magic, like the Root? She resolved to keep a very close eye on things.

Picard lay back down on the furs, inhaling their odour, a mixture of sweat, cooking smells, and leather. He had not been prepared to have his white lie seen through so easily. This woman was far more perceptive and intelligent that he had initially been prepared to give her credit for. Perhaps he should have allowed her to heal him, rather than Data? No, no, that was impossible. Even if she could set bones, they would take weeks to heal. And the longer they stayed here, the more damage they could do to these people's worldview. Better some small quick display of mystery in private than a long, drawn-out contact.

Ayla watched, fascinated, as Data opened the kit he had been carrying, and took out a small grey item the size of his fist. It looked like it was made of smoothly-polished stone, but did not seem very heavy. Suddenly she gasped. He had split the stone open, into two halves! Inside there were masses of tiny fires, flashing in different colours. It reminded her a bit of the sparks her firestones produced – could this be another type of firestone?

She watched as Data moved the small round object in his other hand over Picard's leg, as he had done earlier. Was this a blessing by Doni before the operation? That seemed logical, and Ayla's hand closed around her amulet as she sent a silent prayer to her totem to protect this brave stranger. She got out her sharp flint knife, the edge as sharp as any blade of metal, and prepared to cut off Picard's leggings to allow Data access. But he made no move to do so. Instead he folded up the stone and replaced it, taking out instead a long thin stick, perfectly smooth and of a pale white shade. Ayla gasped when she saw it suddenly glow with blue fire, and averted her eyes. This was indeed powerful magic – even Zelandoni had nothing like this.

Data moved the stick up and down over the ugly swelling in Picard's leg, which to Ayla's utter astonishment began to subside as she watched. In a few moments it was all over. Data replaced the magic wand and Picard smiled, feeling his leg and wriggling his ankle. Ayla couldn't believe her eyes. She had never seen healing magic of this power before. It was beyond anything she could have imagined. She had to know it.

"You should be fine now, Captain," Data said. "It would be advisable not to put too much stress on the leg until the bones have fully fused, in a day or two."

"You make a pretty good field medic, Mr Data," Picard said, sitting up. He glanced over at the woman who had helped them. She was sitting back on her heels, a look of stunned amazement on her lovely face. Picard pursed his lips, and avoided her gaze. It was going to be hard to keep this quiet, but he had to try. And while walking the tightrope between lying and saying too much.

"Ayla," he said softly, "this was a very special, very difficult operation. It would perhaps be best if you did not talk of this to the others. They may not, uh, understand its power."

"I do, however," Ayla said quietly. "What else can you heal?"

"Uh, most injuries," he admitted. "But our devices have limited power so, so far from their home. They would not be of much to you."

"Picard, I am a healer. How can I ignore what I just saw? Such magic could save many lives, could make the difference between life and death not just for one person, but an entire cave, by allowing the injured to hunt again."

"I was afraid this would happen." Picard said sadly. "Ayla, we are bound by oaths of the most binding nature not to share this knowledge with people like you. We dare not."

"Oaths?" Ayla stood up, suddenly angry. "You hide behind oaths while people are dying? We all share, just as I shared the secret of the firestones, just as—"

She broke off. Zelandoni had been opposed to sharing the firestones, she suddenly remembered. She had not fully understood why at the time either. But now she was wiser, more experienced. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the two strangers suspiciously. What cave were they from? Why had they come here? What did they want of the Ninth Cave?

"Who are you?" she said.

Picard and Data exchanged glances.

"We are travellers," Picard explained. "We come from a long way away."

"No, that's not right," Ayla said, still too angry to be diplomatic. "Your body cannot lie, even if you can. You have concealed something."

Picard looked puzzled. "I don't think so. What I said was true."

"Yet your body does not think so," Ayla said accusingly.

Picard's face clouded, and then he smiled. "No, you're right. I was born and grew up not too far from here, and I suppose I was thinking of that as I spoke. But I am telling you the truth – I no longer live anywhere near here, but much farther away than you can understand."

Ayla looked at him. He was telling the truth. So this explained his ability to speak Zelandonii! He must have moved away as young child, and have been rusty when he tried to speak it again. But where had he gone to acquire such magic? Was there some place where the study of the Mother and the mystical realms of the spirits was far more advanced than she could imagine? Like all people of her time, Ayla believed that each living thing, indeed each object, possessed a spirit, a life-force of its own. For the Zelandonii, and for other groups of modern humans at the time, the over-arcing symbol of this pantheistic animist belief system was the Mother, the creator of life, whose spirit was shared among every living and non-living thing of this Earth, but although Ayla had integrated the beliefs of the Others into her own personal religious worldview, the totemic spirits of Clan beliefs still played a greater role in her spirituality than most of the teachings of the Others.

"Why have you come?" she said quietly, almost in a whisper. Was she about to be offered a chance to Serve the Mother in this far-off land and learn this most powerful of all magics?

"We…" Picard stopped, confused by the hope in the young woman's face. What did she want from them? There was nothing he could give her, and even if he had been free to do so, power cells would run down, knowledge would be lost without writing, and it would be meaningless.

He was saved from having to worry about it longer when the hide door opened and a blond man strode in, ducking under the lintel. He was remarkably tall: Picard estimated him at nearly two metres, and he towered over the much shorter Starfleet captain. Seeing the two strangers, he stopped, taken aback, and then, after a questioning glance at Ayla, extended his hands.

Smiling, Picard took them, and Jondalar made his formal introduction.

"Greetings in the name of the Mother. I am Jondalar, mated to Ayla, son of Marthona, brother of Joharran, born to the hearth of Dalanar, Leader of the Lanzadonii. In the name of Doni, the Great Earth Mother, I welcome you."

"Greetings Jondalar, Ayla's mate and Marthona's son," Picard said formally. "I am Jean-Luc Picard, son of Yvette and Maurice Picard, Captain of the Enterprise, born in the village of La Barre." Picard felt safe giving his title, knowing that the terms would be nothing more than more names to these people, and feeling that leaving out his rank and lineage would simply cause more questions.

Ayla listened to his introduction with great interest. He used the word son in relation to his mother's mate! He had given the name of the man of his hearth, not in relation to his mother, but in relation to himself! Perhaps his people shared her ideas on the role of the man in creating children. She resolved to talk to him as soon as possible about this.

"And your companion?" Jondalar was asking.

"This is Data, son of Juliana and Noonien Soong, Second in command of the Enterprise, father of Lal." Picard felt no compunction whatsoever about referring to Dr Noonien Soong and his wife as Data's parents for, in everything that mattered, they were.

"In the name of Doni, you are both most welcome. What brings two such important people such a long distance?"

Picard and Data exchanged looks, then Picard shrugged slightly, and decided that something not too far from the truth would be best.

"We have heard about remarkable caves of the area, and wished to see them for ourselves," he said, somewhat lamely.

Jondalar and Ayla both gasped.

"Do you mean… Doni's Deep?" Ayla asked, her eyes wide. She well remembered her first trip into that dark and sacred womb of the earth. How the solid stone walls had seemed to turn translucent, showing her soft black realms of infinite depth that had seemed to draw her in, embrace her…capture her. She shuddered, and was glad for the tall comforting presence of her mate beside her. Her hand stole into his, taking comfort in the familiar callused palm.

"The paintings there are not for casual eyes," came a new voice. Ayla turned, and saw the broad figure of Zelandoni of the Ninth Cave, First Among Those Who Serve, squeezing through the doorframe.

"They're painted?" Picard said, suddenly excited. This was an incredible stroke of fortune. Doni's Deep…? What cave systems around here were painted this long ago? Chauvet? Font de Gaume? Some other system not yet discovered? But before he had time to speculate further, he realised Ayla was speaking to him, introducing the newcomer.

"Sorry, I was just a bit carried away. So this is Zelandoni, your High Shamaness? I am honoured to meet you, Zelandoni," he said. "I am Jean-Luc Picard, leader of the Enterprise."

Zelandoni looked at the older man closely, suspicion in her eyes. But her mouth smiled in welcome as she extended her hands to his.

"Welcome, Picard of Enterprise. You have heard of our sacred art?"

Picard nodded. "Stories of the great artists of this area have spread far and wide," he said.

"And is your interest purely curiosity?" Zelandoni said, searching his face.

"I am…a student of such things," Picard said.

Ayla's eyes opened wide. Was this man also One Who Serves? Of course! And Data must be his acolyte! It made sense now, that they would be travelling alone, on a Journey of spiritual exploration. No doubt this was why they had come to the Zelandonii, if indeed rumours of the profoundly spiritual representations of Doni's Deep, womb of the Earth Mother, had reached them.

"Picard of Enterprise, as One Who Serves you are welcome here. In order that we may show you the proper respect, what is your standing among Those Who Serve?"

Picard thought quickly. As captain of the Federation flagship, he was theoretically _prima inter pares_, first among equals, between all Starfleet captains, but above him were still the admirals and civilian authorities of the vast and sprawling Federation.

"I am perhaps first among the leaders of my rank, but above me are the highest rank of Those Who Serve, and above them are the leaders of our people, the Federation."

The term was not familiar to Zelandoni. It implied a collective, much like the Zelandonii, but there was something strange about its use – as if it were far more than just one tribe, however large. But she let it pass for the moment. The season was well advanced, and she expected the two men would want to winter with them. She was glad that Ayla had found them, and brought them to the Ninth Cave. Such interesting visitors would definitely enhance their standing among the other caves.

"Well, Picard, First-of-the-Second, perhaps we shall see about arranging a visit to the Womb of the Mother later on."

"Zelandoni," Ayla interjected, "these men have great healing gifts, the most powerful magic I have ever seen. Perhaps if we showed them Doni's Deep, they could be persuaded to share their skills with us."

Picard groaned inside. The young woman was desperate to learn their secrets, and he could hardly blame her. But even if the timeline and the Prime Directive were not issues, they simply could not use Starfleet technology in the Palaeolithic, not for longer than a few weeks. Everything in his world depended on the ready availability of almost limitless energy, but here the only motive power was human strength. How could he avoid disappointing her?

"Captain," Data said, interrupting his thoughts. "You should not be spelunking for at least two or three days. Your bones need more time to fully fuse."

"Agreed, Mr Data. A few days here shouldn't hurt anyway."

"Bones? What do they mean?" Zelandoni asked, turning to Ayla.

The blonde girl's beautiful face was lit up with excitement. "Picard's acolyte, the man named Data, mended a broken leg with a few passes of a sacred wand," she said. "In just a few breaths Picard was able to stand upright!"

"How is this possible?" Zelandoni asked. If true – and she knew Ayla of all people would not misdiagnose a broken leg – this would be a truly miraculous gift. If she could obtain it, somehow….

"It is true, Zelandoni," said Data. "However its power is limited to a few uses, and we have no spares."

_Thank you Mr Data_, Picard thought. A neat solution, and one that had the advantage of being completely true.

Ayla was looking at Data with curiosity. Normally she was able to tell if someone was telling the truth or not by their body language, but with this man it was impossible: he had no body language at all. Not the slightest tick or blink, no pupil dilation, no increased respiration, nothing at all to guide her. And his eyes were the most unusual shade of yellow, like no eyes she had ever seen before. His skin, pale and with a slight sheen, was also disturbing. However she would not dream of commenting on how unusual he looked – she knew how much she hated it when the Clan were called ugly and non-human, when her own son had been called deformed. Ayla was determined to accept all people for what they were like on the inside, not the outside. It disturbed her that there were so many who weren't, but since Picard's people had allowed Data to become an acolyte, they clearly shared her sensibilities, and that made her warm to them.

Thus lost in thought, she was suddenly jolted back to reality by a baby's cry.

"Jonayla! She needs feeding!" Ayla dashed into the sleeping area of their home and returned in a few moments, bare from the waist up and with a suckling baby at one breast. She would not have nursed the child outside, but in her own hearth she was free to do what she wanted, and she did not want to miss a moment of the conversation with the strangers.

Jondalar smiled as he saw the baby snuggle up against his mother. If what Ayla said was true then she was, literally, half his as well. Looking at her deep blue eyes, so like his own, he hoped it was true. But then even if it was just spirits, then surely at least it was an equal mix of the mother's spirit and her mate's, was it not?

"Talking of food," he said cheekily, "did you get any for us?"

Ayla laughed. She had completely forgotten about the rabbits she had captured. "Over there, on the floor, in that carry-bag. Two plump rabbits, rich with winter fat."

"Snow white, too," Jondalar murmured in approval as he pulled them out. "These skins are just what I was looking for – Laranoda of the Seventh Cave has some of the finest-grained flint I've seen, and it would make superb knives."

"I want at least one skin for Jonayla, though," Ayla said, shifting the baby to her other breast.

Picard watched Jondalar gleefully holding up the slaughtered carcasses, and felt a slight queasiness in his stomach. For him, it had been centuries since humans killed living animals for food, and he found the entire concept rather disturbing.

"I believe Lieutenant Worf would appreciate this more than you, Captain," Data said quietly.

"I believe you are right, Commander Data," Picard replied. "However he would find rabbits to be rather small for his tastes."

"Who is this Worf?" Jondalar asked, looking at them curiously.

"He is the best hunter I know," Picard said truthfully. "His people pride themselves on their hunting prowess."

"A pity he is not here, then," Jondalar said. "It is nearly mammoth season – sometimes, if we are lucky, a herd of mammoths will pass near here, which means enough meat for an entire Cave."

"I know he would certainly appreciate the chance," Picard said with feeling.

"Hello Ayla," came another voice. "Zelandoni told me you had returned, with a stranger."

Picard turned to see a handsome middle-aged woman enter the dwelling.

"And this must be he – or rather, they," she added. "On behalf of the Ninth Cave, I, Marthona, mother of the leader, Joharran the hearth-brother of Jondalar, greet you in the name of the Mother, and bid you welcome."

"I greet you Marthona," Picard said, repeating the formal greeting he had given to Jondalar. Data followed suit, and after the greetings were over, Marthona, casting a quick look at Ayla, asked them what had brought them to the Zelandonii.

"Doni's Deep? That is a very powerful place," she said when she heard of their destination. "How long have you been One Who Serves, if I may ask?"

"I have been in Starfleet—" the term was unfamiliar to Marthona, but she caught something about the stars "—most of my life now," Picard said.

"And how many years are you, then?" Marthona asked, appraising him. He looked at least fifty, she thought. He was almost bald, and what little hair he had remaining was cut very short and was nearly all white.

"I am sixty-five, Marthona," Picard replied.

"Sixty-five!" Marthona did some quick counting on her fingers. That was old! Older than almost anyone she had ever heard of, a good twenty years older than herself. And yet this man was still fit and active, almost as fit as a man half his age.

"And it has been thirty-three years since I was given life," Data added. Marthona looked at him and nodded. While he looked younger than his years, thirty-three was a good age, the age of someone in the prime of life, mature and wise. Zelandoni was about that age, but if his First was still active and healthy at over sixty, then it was not surprising he was not a full Servant of the Mother.

"Marthona, Picard needs to rest," Ayla said. She had returned from settling Jonayla on her furs, and was wiping her hands on a small piece of soft leather. She had heard Jondalar's mother's distinctive voice from the other chamber, and was glad of the older woman's presence. Marthona, as former leader of the Ninth Cave, would have much influence in the question of allowing the two strangers to winter with them. Ayla quickly explained what had happened: how she had found the two men, and how Picard had had his leg healed by the powerful magic stick that the acolyte Data carried.

Marthona's eyes grew round at hearing that. She nodded. Such knowledge could be useful, and even if they couldn't utilize it at the moment, it would be sensible to make friends with these men, and establish friendly trading relations between their tribes. Perhaps that way the Zelandonii too could learn the secrets of the healing stick. She turned to Picard.

"As the former leader of the Ninth Cave, I would like to extend my personal invitation to you and your acolyte to winter with us. You must have much we can learn from you, many tales to tell. We shall look forward to your company on the long winter evenings."

"I thank you for your hospitality, Marthona," Picard replied, unsure of how exactly to proceed. He didn't want to offend them, and it would probably be a few days at least until the Enterprise was able to track them. "On behalf of myself and my companion, I welcome your offer. We do indeed have many tales to tell, and hope that you would grant us the privilege of hearing yours as well."

"In that case I suggest you start with Jondalar's tale of his great Journey, and his return with a prize beyond all treasuring," said Marthona warmly.

"This might take a while," Jondalar added. "I hope you have time."

"Well, Mr Data requires me to rest for a few days," Picard said. "So if the tale can be told in three days, then please begin."

"Better cut out the bits that repeat other bits, then," Ayla suggested, smiling to herself.

* * *

**NOTES:**

Sorry for the delay—it's a very busy time of year.

For any ST fans that don't know EC and for some reason have read this far: Iza was Ayla's adoptive mother in the Neanderthal Clan, and a healer, who taught Ayla her arts. Creb was the Mog-Ur, the spiritual healer and Wise Man. Mamut was a similar figure in the Cro Magnon tribe of mammoth hunters Ayla lived with for a while after meeting Jondalar. Doni is the Earth Mother. And an abri is a rock shelter formed by the overhang of a cliff and often containing prehistoric occupation deposits.

The "Better cut out the bits that repeat other bits, then" is a direct dig at the endless repetitions of their story in Shelters of Stone. Not to mention the Mother's Song. Made me wonder if Auel was getting paid by the word….


	4. A Lesson in Practical Archaeology

**4. A Lesson in Practical Archaeology**

_Commanding Officer's Log, Stardate 48422.19. No word has been heard from either Captain Picard or Commander Data since they came out of warp in near-Earth orbit, bound for France. Starfleet has detected the remains of a chronodrive field above south-central France, and we suspect that the captain and the second officer have been pulled into its wake. However it will likely take several days to calculate exactly when they have been pulled to, nor is there any guarantee that we ourselves will be able to arrive at precisely the same moment in time. The engine modifications are almost complete, and as soon as they are done, I intend to take the Enterprise into Earth orbit._

"Who would dare operate an unshielded chronodrive so near to an inhabited planet?" Worf growled, drumming his fingers on the console.

Riker closed the Ship's Log and glanced behind him at the tall and powerfully-built Klingon.

"I don't know, Mr Worf. It could be anyone, any-when. That's the trouble with time travel." He sighed and rubbed his temples.

"I hate just sitting here!" Worf exclaimed. "The captain is missing, and there isn't a thing we can do about it but wait! Can't the Enterprise's sensors detect anything?" he added, ready to do something, anything. Worf couldn't abide just sitting and waiting. Unless it was when hunting. Yes, patience when hunting was good, as you waited for your prey to come closer and closer, unsuspecting, while you focused your mind and gathered your energies. But this was unbearable. It was frustrating, without no clear prey, and Worf hated being frustrated.

"Out here at the Utopia Planitia yards of Mars, we're too far away to be of any use," Riker said. "The Earth is on the other side of the Sun, and besides, the Federation has far more powerful sensors, based on Earth itself. There's nothing we can do to assist."

"Perhaps we could try, anyway," Troi interjected. "It would give the officers some goal, at least. I can sense they are all – including you, Will – restless and impatient."

"We're not going anywhere with the dilithium chamber in about a thousand pieces over the floor of Main Engineering," LaForge said, turning away from the engineering panel where he had been running some tests. "It'll take days just to reassemble it. Dr Brahms and I have almost finished our modifications though."

"What exactly are you trying to do?" Worf asked, rather more curtly than he intended.

LaForge let it slide, knowing he was only worried about his captain. "Dr Brahms thinks she can increase the engine output efficiency ratio by up to five percent."

"Five percent? Is that all? For five percent, we sit here and let the captain face unknown perils?"

"Five percent more power, applied asymptotically, would have enabled us to outrun the Borg four years ago," LaForge said quietly, his meaning clear.

Worf's face darkened. To be captured by the enemy and made to be their puppet was a great disgrace, but his captain's strength had been such that even in his darkest hour he could still summon up the power to defeat his enemies. In Worf's opinion, it had been one of Picard's finest moments, but he knew how it had mentally and emotionally scarred his captain. Perhaps it was a battle that need not have been fought.

"Very well. We shall wait," the Klingon grunted.

"Anyway, Starfleet will probably have sent a rescue team in by the time we're finished," LaForge said, returning to his console.

Worf grimaced again. That would be an intolerable humiliation, he knew. To sit idly by and do nothing while his commanding officer was rescued by others!

"Don't worry Worf," Riker said, guessing how the proud warrior felt about it. "I intend to rescue the captain myself, don't worry."

"Remember, it doesn't matter how long it takes us to get the Enterprise ship-shape," LaForge said, his hands flying over the engineering console controls. "Since we're dealing with time travel, we should theoretically be able to retrieve the captain and Commander Data just moments after they arrive. With luck, we could probably catch them even before they land."

* * *

"What an incredible journey," Picard breathed. To have walked across almost the entire sub-continent of Europe without roads or maps was even more astounding, in its way, than the exploration missions of the Enterprise. He looked at Ayla and Jondalar with new-found respect, and not a little awe.

"How far have you come on your Journey here, Picard?" Ayla asked.

"Please, call me Jean-Luc," Picard said while he thought of a plausible answer.

"What is Jonluk?" Ayla asked. She had noticed earlier how he had given two names, and had wondered at that.

"It is my personal name," Picard replied. "'Picard' is the name of my family, my, uh, immediate clan."

"Oh, so you are Jean-Luc of the Picard, Leader of the Enterprise, First-of-the-Second-Ranked among Those Who Serve?"

"More or less," Picard smiled, wondering Admiral Nechayev would react to such an introduction.

"So how far have stories of Doni's Deep spread far among your people?" Ayla asked, getting back to the reason for their guests' journey.

"Not that far," Picard admitted. "Only those that study such things really know about them, though many know of them. But the art of your people is much respected."

Ayla smiled, and looked at her mate. The others had left them, having heard the tale before, so she and Jondalar were alone with the strangers.

"I did not realise they were so famous," the tall man said, his brow furrowing. "Do you not have similar in your own homeland?"

"Not like this," Picard said. He looked around at the small roofless shelter, cramped and chaotic by his standards, but far above anything he had ever expected from the ice age. Nor was it as cold as he would have imagined. Data's estimate of some thirty thousand years into the past would probably put them in the middle of the Wurm interstadial, he realised. Temperatures were lower than Earth in the 24th century, but still rather higher than the peaks of glaciation. His knowledge of paleobiology was limited, but from what he knew of similar climates on other planets, there were probably steppes and prairies teeming with game, allowing enough leisure time to develop the art and culture that even after thirty millennia still had the power to awe and humble those that were lucky enough to see it. He too wanted to see it, very badly. But there was something else that, he realised awkwardly, he needed to attend to even more badly.

"Uh, Ayla," he began. The blonde woman looked at him expectantly, her eyes searching his face. She smiled, and patted him on the arm.

"Jondalar will show you. Are you sure you can walk there?"

Picard nodded. "If it's not too far."

"Not far at all," Ayla said, and prodded Jondalar in the ribs. "Take Jean-Luc to the toilet trenches."

Jondalar's eyes opened in realisation, and he shook his head in disbelief at his beautiful and intelligent mate's ability to read body language.

"Come, Jean-Luc," he said, and stood up. Picard eased himself off the sleeping furs, waving away Data and Jondalar's assistance, and stood up. His leg throbbed, but that was normal for just after surgery. He was grateful that he hadn't had to rely on Ayla entirely, skilled as she no doubt was. Even a few hundred years before his birth healing a broken leg had taken weeks. And here, now, without antiseptics or anaesthesia? He shuddered at the idea.

Jondalar led Picard out of the abri, to the eastern edge of the terrace, where a path ran uphill. When the trail split they took the right path, and in a few moments Picard's nose began to detect the unmistakable signs that they were nearing the right place.

"We just dusted it last full moon," Jondalar said proudly.

"Dusted?"

"With the dust from the cave. We heat it and spread it over, and it stops most of the smell," he explained.

Picard raised an eyebrow. Heated limestone dust – quicklime – was known for its deodorizing properties, so perhaps it was logical that even back in this time people would make use of it. It was a fairly common find at archaeological sites around the Alpha quadrant, and almost always denoted the areas for ablutions and waste extraction. But he had never heard of its use at such an early stage before.

"I'll wait here," Jondalar said, motioning Picard on. Ablutions were something that was always done in as much privacy as possible, because of the connections with uncleanliness and impurity. Impurity could anger the Mother, whose creations and whose world were all the essence of purity. He stood there, idly stripping the leaves off a branch, while Picard ventured into the toilet area. Soon the older man was back, wiping his hands carefully on a clump of dried moss, and looking quite pleased with himself for no reason Jondalar could figure.

"I haven't done that for years," Picard grinned, tossing away the moss. "And certainly never in such a well-organised place."

"Done what in years?" Jondalar asked, despite himself.

"Oh, ah." Picard looked embarrassed. "We have a slightly different set-up where I come from," he said quickly, and changed the subject. "I really am most grateful for your hospitality," he said as the two of them walked slowly back. "I certainly would not want to have to spend the night out on the grasslands."

"No, winter is approaching," the taller man said seriously. "Winter is the great cleanser, preparing the land for when spring comes and the earth is renewed, when Doni's bounty fills the world."

"What do you do all winter?" Picard asked, wondering if they still were able to hunt, or if they were confined to their caves the entire time.

"There is a great deal to do," Jondalar said. "I find it a good time to make many new blades, which we can trade at the Summer Gathering."

"Blades?! Of flint?" Picard asked excitedly.

His companion looked at him curiously. "Of course of flint," he said. "But some of bone and even wood."

"I would very much like to see some of your work," Picard said. In addition to the sheer curiosity value, he was also hopeful that its style might provide him with a clue as to the exact time period he was in. He suspected Aurignacian from the time period alone, but the culture seemed more advanced than he would have suspected for that; almost Gravettian in many ways. One of the great debates among archaeologists was how ice-age culture evolved: was it was through slow experimentation alone, or through trade and cultural contacts, or through being supplanted by invading peoples? He was also interested in the techniques used: while modern archaeology was able to make very educated guesses, there were still gaps. But most importantly of all, the one thing that was never able to be known from the silent stone, was the cultural significance of tools or art. Picard was determined to make the most of the opportunity to learn what had eluded generations of academics before him. It was already obvious that these people were far more sophisticated than many archaeologists were willing to give them credit for.

* * *

"If you wish also to use the trenches," Ayla commented to Data as she busied herself with the evening meal, "feel free to let me know."

"That is all right, Ayla," Data said smoothly. "I do not require them."

She looked up at him, mildly puzzled by his tone. It was so smooth, so precise, so controlled. There was none of the slight uncertainty, the brief fluctuations, of most talk. Combined with the unusual pallor of his skin and his golden eyes, it made her wonder just what sort of people he was from.

"Is there some way in which I can assist you?" Data was asking as she gazed at him.

"Do you know how to use firestones?" she asked, pointing to the hearth and handing him the flint and iron pyrite.

Data's eyes flickered briefly, his head giving an almost imperceptible jerk to the right as he accessed his memory files.

"Yes."

"If you could start the fire – there is wood piled by the door – then I will be able to prepare the rabbit." She held up one of the animals she had killed that morning. It was already skinned and gutted, and Ayla was in the process of dismembering it ready for the pot.

"The captain and I have our own food," Data said. "You do not need to cook for us."

"Please, we would be honoured if you would share our meal," Ayla said. "Besides, travelling rations are not really the most appetizing of foods, are they?"

"I have indeed heard many people voice similar sentiments," Data said truthfully as he carefully lined up the stones and struck them together at a precisely-calculated angle. A large spark flew off and landed in the centre of the dry moss tinder. The android carefully added small twigs and shavings, and then larger pieces of timber. Soon the fire was roaring away, and Ayla placed a rawhide pot full of water over it, suspended just above the flames.

At that moment the door-hide was thrown open, and Picard and Jondalar stepped in. Jondalar immediately went to his stores, and took out a soft hide bundle, which he unwrapped carefully. Picard gasped. A long thin blade lay amongst the folds, its delicately-scalloped edges translucently thin.

"Go ahead, pick it up," Jondalar grinned. Picard reached out and took the blade in his hands, holding it against the fire so that the light dappled through the edges. "Light, isn't it?"

Picard nodded, lost for words. He had never seen a more magnificent flint blade – the ones in museums had been buried for tens of millennia, their edges long dulled; lifeless shadows of the living stone. But this – this was different. The blade he held was leaf-shaped, swelling out from a rounded base, with a thicker ridge running down its length that served as a backbone, giving it strength and rigidity. Picard was sure it was closer in style to the Gravettian than the Aurignacian, and indeed showed some signs of the high artisanship of the Solutrean, one of the last stages of the Palaeolithic. This was clearly no ordinary blade for butchering animals.

"Why do you make such beautiful knives?" Picard asked, running his finger carefully along the blade. It was extremely sharp – the cutting edge was just a single molecule thick.

"We make these as symbols to offer the Mother," Jondalar told him. "These are used with the symbolic animals in Doni's Deep to pray for good hunting and to calm the souls of the animals we eat."

"You can also trade them for many useful things," Ayla added prosaically. Men! Even Those That Serve were not above the typical male fascination with blades and hunting. But there was something more than that in Picard's eyes, she realised as she watched him admire the flint. It was almost like the look in Ranec's eyes when he would gaze at a fine carving – the appreciation was aesthetic, rather than practical. Ayla had little knowledge and ability in that direction, she knew. Her wooden bowls were simple and practical, the only concession to beauty being the way they were shaped to bring out the grain. She was able to copy ideas she had seen elsewhere and apply them, but the skills to breathe life into cold inanimate matter like Ranec, or even Jondalar, were not ones she had either been born with or had needed to learn. In the often harsh environment of the ice age, where all needed to work, and practicality meant survival, art for art's sake was a luxury good.

* * *

**NOTES:**

"Applied asymptotically" is my wee shout-out to "Where No One Has Gone Before," when Kosinski was spouting technobabble about his fancy equations.

The mention of the toilets is partially as Auel is always doing it, and partially as Trek is never doing it: we never hear about the Captain's Head.

Aurignacian, Gravettian, and Solutrean, as you might have guessed, are periods of the Upper Paleolithic. The Solutrean represents some of the finest flint-knapping ever.

Ranec was the artistic member of the Mammoth Hunter tribe Ayla and Jondalar lived with for a time.


	5. Colours of the Past

**5. Colours of the Past**

Ayla put a double handful of small onions and roots into the pot, along with the rest of the carcass, and started threading the rabbit joints on wooden skewers, which she stuck in the earth around the fire to slowly barbeque. She had rubbed dried herbs over the joints, working them into the flesh, and soon the aroma was filling the small living area. Picard looked on in interest, curious as to how cooking was managed in the Palaeolithic. He was impressed by the array of herbs available to them, and by the skin pot, which transferred the heat that would otherwise burn it through to the liquid inside it.

After a short wait, the meal was ready. Picard took a ravenous bite of the rabbit, and chewed contentedly. The meat was a bit tougher than he was used to – the animal had died in fright, its body flooded with adrenalin – but lean and dense, and full of flavour, if not quite as salty as the food he normally had.

"Cooking has always been an art in France," he said to Data, grinning as he licked the juice off his fingers.

"What is 'france'?" Ayla asked, ladling out bowls of the broth and placing one before each of her guests.

"France is what my people call this entire region," Picard said, knowing that simple names would change nothing. "All the land between the Great Sea and the mountains to the east."

"I do not think the Zelandonii have a name for the entire land," Ayla said, sipping her soup. "Each cave or tribe has its own name for its own people, but we do not name the land, for it is not ours to name."

"No, nor is it ours…" Picard trailed off. He looked at her, and felt a slight shiver run down his back. To live in a world where the control of land was not the key to wealth was something that humans had only achieved after centuries of oppression and exploitation. Even on Earth in the 24th century, while ownership of land no longer conveyed power or wealth, it was still practiced. But here, in the far-off dawn of human civilisation, a man could still wander for years across the earth, at will. Suddenly Picard knew what he had subconsciously thrilled at – here, at the very opposite end of history, was the same great unexplored vastness that he had always felt himself destined to travel, to explore. For these people, the vast untracked spaces of Palaeolithic Eurasia were as great an exploration as going to the other side of the Galaxy was for him.

"Why does Data not eat?" Ayla suddenly said, interrupting Picard's train of thought.

"I am…fasting," Data explained smoothly. "I eat only once per day, before the sun rises, and always alone."

"I understand," Ayla said, though she was a bit disappointed that the slim stranger was not able to join in their meal. She took another bite of the leg she was chewing on and licked her lips. Tonight's was a particularly successful one as well.

"I'll eat his then," Jondalar said grinning, and wolfed down the second bowl. "No sense in letting perfectly good food go to waste."

"I'll save the meat for Wolf though," Ayla said, snatching away the rest of the rabbit before Jondalar could get it.

"Hey! That's the best part!" Jondalar exclaimed, his exaggerated crestfallen expression causing Picard to burst out laughing. Some things never change, he thought. This could be a scene in his own family's houses, his brother angry at missing out on some delicacy reserved for others. The thought comforted him greatly. He finished his broth, and put the wooden bowl down on the ground.

"That was wonderful, thank you," he said.

"I am glad you liked it," Ayla replied. She took the bowl and set it aside with the other dirty items for washing later. Then she sat back on her heels and looked at the older man, not sure where to begin. She had so many questions, but she sensed a certain reluctance on his part to provide answers. She was certain he was not hostile, but she felt an undercurrent of danger, or perhaps loss, when she looked at him.

Picard caught her eye and smiled. He didn't know how long they would have to remain with these people, and knew that he and Data should leave as soon as possible. But the archaeologist in him was desperate to learn more about these people, his far-distant ancestors. Even in the 24th century, while time travel was sometimes technically possible – the infamous Kirk had done so rather more often than he should have, usually by sling-shotting his ship around the sun in order to create the hyper-parabolic arcs and super-dense graviton fields needed for chrono-particle generation – it was nevertheless highly controlled. People from the future sometimes came to the 24th century, or visited other times, but as far as Picard knew, he was the first man from his time to visit the Upper Palaeolithic of 30,000 years ago. It was an opportunity he could not bear to waste. But where to begin?

"Your clothes are very unusual, Jean-Luc," Ayla said suddenly, forestalling any of Picard's questions. "How do you get them that vivid shade of red?"

"Red?" Picard was somewhat surprised. He had not expected to be asked about the colour of his uniform. "I honestly don't know," he admitted. "Dye, I assume."

"We use some dyes here as well, from plants," Ayla said. "We have ways to produce red dyes, but I know of none that produces such a brilliant rich shade."

"In my land we sometimes used small insects for dying things red," Picard said, referring to cochineal beetles, whose dried carcasses were crushed to extract a brilliant red dye. "But I do not know if any are around here. They are found in the land to the south of the, uh, south-western mountain range."

"Which mountain range is this?" Ayla asked.

"The one that divides this land, which we call France, from a large peninsula we call the Iberian," Picard said.

"Another land? How many are there?" Ayla asked. "Do they keep going on for ever? I hear that to the west there is a great sea, and Hochaman told me there is another one far to the east, farther than I have ever been. Are there ones to the north and south as well?"

"We know of many seas," Picard said, somewhat awkwardly. How was he going to manage to avoid offending his host at best, shattering the Prime Directive at worst, with so many inevitable questions? Ayla was very curious indeed, a trait which Picard admired, but at the same time he found himself wishing she was just a little bit more incurious. Like the others of her tribe, he thought. They saw a stranger, greeted him, and accepted him. But Ayla was different – she wanted to know things.

"Mr Data can answer your questions better than I, perhaps," Picard added, hoping Data's lies would be less readily detectable. "If you don't mind, I would like to go for a walk, take a look around the area."

Ayla looked at him, puzzled. She could sense he was eager to teach her what he knew, but something was preventing him, holding him back from sharing. It must be the oaths he took as One Who Serves, she thought. But what could the duties of serving the Mother have to do with the seas and mountains? She smiled, and shook her head.

"I shall show you around myself," she said. "We can leave the questions for later."

"That would be very kind of you," Picard said, and rose.

"With your permission, Captain, I should like to accompany you. Your leg is not fully set, and there are many uneven surfaces here."

"I don't intend to go rock-climbing, don't worry," Picard said. "I just want to exercise it, work off the numbness."

"Very good, sir," Data said, and returned to his position.

Picard followed Ayla out of the dwelling. "How long have your people lived here?" he asked, looking up at the soot-blackened ceiling.

"They are not really my people," Ayla said. "I was born a long way off."

She had not covered her childhood when telling Picard of their journey, and was not willing to until she knew him better. The fact that someone as strange-looking as Data was allowed a high position in his society was some reassurance, but not enough, not yet.

"Of course – you said that Jondalar had made the journey out to you with his brother. So were you born far to the East?"

"I'm not sure where I was born," Ayla admitted. "I don't remember. But I grew up on a peninsula to the north of a large sea."

"A peninsula to the north of a large sea," Picard mused, trying to figure out where she could mean.

"The same sea that the Mother empties into," Ayla added.

"The Black Sea? Really?"

"How is it that your people have a name for this sea?" Ayla asked, shock in her voice.

"My people did a lot of trading in the great inland sea to the south," Picard said. He was annoyed at himself for having to dissemble: the plan had been to ask Ayla questions, not the reverse. "All the inland seas are connected, and they open out into the great ocean we know as the Atlantic."

"Well, yes, I was born beyond the...Black? Sea," Ayla continued. "People here say I look a bit different to them, and they can tell I am not local. You cannot?"

Picard looked at her face, with its high cheekbones, gently curving jawline, and light blue-grey eyes, and shook his head. Centuries of racial mixing had made it occasionally difficult to even tell an African from a European in his time, and the subtle distinctions between different European peoples were completely obliterated – and in his opinion had always been more idea than reality anyway.

"No, I'm sorry, I cannot. You look like everyone else, to me at least."

Ayla looked at his face, and wondered how he would fit in among the peoples she knew. Picard's nose was the most prominent part of his face, a large curving beak. His forehead sloped back, and she wondered briefly if he had any Clan blood in him. But he had no brow ridges, and his frame was slight. She gave up – she just didn't know enough people to judge.

"That's Marthona's hearth over there," she said, pointing in the appropriate direction. "And that's Zelandoni's, and that's Joharran's. Over there is Solaban and Ranakol, and this one belongs to Marona," she finished with a slight disdainful curl of the lips.

"Zelandoni is your spiritual leader, right?" Picard asked, cutting short the flow of names that meant nothing to him. "Could I speak with her, perhaps, about seeing the caves of Doni's Deep?"

"She is very protective of those caves," Ayla said seriously. "They are some of the most sacred spaces anyone knows. Not just anyone is permitted to enter, and certainly not strangers. She will want to learn your ideas and thoughts."

"They may be very different from hers," Picard admitted. "But we are, perhaps, both seekers after truth. Though our paths may differ, our goal is the same."

"Come, this is her hearth," Ayla said, and scratched lightly on the leather skin that covered the entrance. At a grunted "Enter," she pushed it aside, and beckoned to Picard to follow her.

"Welcome, stranger." The obese woman was sitting on a large stool, her bulk almost hiding it. She was stirring something over a low flame that, whatever it was, was clearly not food by the stench it gave off.

"Pardon the mess," Zelandoni said as she motioned to the guest area. "This is just a compress for infections. It works best if you boil the leaves until they are a pulp first."

"It works faster that way," Picard surmised. "The important parts, the healing parts, are leached out and concentrated."

"Indeed, stranger," Zelandoni said, appraising him out of the corner of her eye while she pretended to be busy looking for a fresh piece of wood. He was no stranger to the healing arts, she could tell. Most people attributed the success – or failure – of her medicines to the will of Doni, and had no idea how they worked or why each ingredient mattered; how leaving out one small leaf could turn a cure into a poison, or vice-versa. Not that Zelandoni minded too much – so long as they looked to her to intercede on behalf of Doni, it didn't matter if it was her skill at medicine or her skill at interceding with The Mother that worked. Just that it worked. She poked the fire with a long green stick, and sat back.

"So. You wish to see The Deep," she said. "It is a powerful space, one that someone untrained in the ways of The Mother cannot enter – for their own sake."

"I am prepared," Picard said. "You may test me, if you like."

"Oh, there will be no tests, Picard," Zelandoni said. "I would not presume to test your skill. But I am less certain of you yourself," she added.

"I understand. You wish to trust me, but trust is not always an easy thing. Especially between two peoples who have never met before."

"No. It is not," Zelandoni said. "However…at the time when the moon hides its light there will be a ceremony in Doni's Deep that you might be allowed to attend. That is in, um, five days," she said, surreptitiously counting on her fingers. She hoped she was right – it was sometimes hard to keep track. She had marking sticks, similar to the one Ayla had used in her cave when she had been banished, but sometimes she forgot to mark them. Not that it had ever appeared to matter if she was off by a day or two. No one seemed to notice, and that was the important thing.

"Five days…." For once, Picard was hoping he wouldn't be rescued too soon. The chance to witness an authentic Palaeolithic cave ritual was not one likely to come again. This was a priceless opportunity. What better way to understand the social and cultural context of the art of a people than to see how they responded to it?

"Those are strange clothes you wear, Picard," Zelandoni said, interrupting his thoughts.

Picard glanced down at his simple two-piece red-and-black Starfleet uniform. He grimaced slightly: he wished he was wearing something a little less conspicuous - it was the most telling sign he did not belong. He was glad he was sitting beside Ayla rather than in front of her, as that way his attempts to uphold the Prime Directive would not be so noticeable. But he would volunteer nothing, he decided. So he remained quiet, and just looked at the fire.

Zelandoni marked his obvious disquiet, and his reluctance to tell her everything, but she was not offended by it. We all have our secrets, she thought, and perhaps the precise meaning of the bold colours is only to be revealed to initiates. After all, he and his acolyte are wearing exactly the same style, differing only in colour.

"Does red mean you are the leader?" the large woman asked, after considering the issue for a few moments.

Picard looked up, surprised at her perspicacity.

"You are in red and black, your acolyte is in yellow and black – presumably there is a reason," Zelandoni said, wondering how far she could draw him out. The game had begun: the game of trust and power – whoever could gain the most power and the most trust would win. It was a game the First was very good at. It was why she was the First.

"Yes, the colours have meaning," Picard admitted. "Red is indeed the colour of leadership, but yellow does not mean acolyte. Instead, it means one who works with, uh, the tools and devices we use. And blue is the colour of the healers and those who study the natural world."

Zelandoni arched an eyebrow. This use of colour for dividing rituals of serving The Mother was new to her. She didn't understand the basis for it, and was reluctant to ask directly.

"I think I see," Ayla said. "It is like the way different colours are used in the cave paintings to mean different aspects of The Mother." She had heard all about that from Jonokol, the young artist who was busy communing with the white-walled caverns she had found the previous year.

Zelandoni's right eyebrow flickered up briefly in an indication of scepticism, but she kept quiet. Better to let Ayla ask the questions and make the conclusions, she decided. It will be a good test for her. And it doesn't matter as much if she's wrong.

"Yes, in a way. How are colours used in your world?" Picard asked, eager to find a topic he could ask about.

"You perhaps should ask Jonokol for details," Ayla said. "He only told me once, and I'm not sure I can remember them all. Black is the colour of the past, of the known, as it is all colours together. When everything, the future, the present, is mixed and joined, we have the past. White is for the future, for that which we do not know but the Mother does, as white is the colour that accepts other colours without change, and is nothing, so it represents possibilities. If we wish to spiritually see a herd of bison, then the bison are painted in white. Then, once they have been seen, but before the hunt, they are over-painted in ochre, the colour of the earth and the Mother. Then after the hunt, to give thanks to the spirit of the bison, and to the Mother that gave it life, we use red. Red is the colour of life, for it is the colour of blood. Symbolically, red and white mean life, as they are the potential for living. And red and black mean death, as they are the was-living. There are also many different shadings that can be used, especially of ochre and red. And of course when we do not need to invoke the Mother, the animals are sometimes painted in real colours."

"Fascinating," Picard murmured. "How are the rituals related?"

"Sorry to interrupt," Zelandoni said cheerfully. "Ayla, could you take this to Salova? I'm not as agile as I once was," she added to Picard, indicating her considerable bulk with a wry smile.

"Of course, Zelandoni," Ayla said, taking the pot of stewed leaves. Picard got up to follow his hostess. After they had gone, Zelandoni turned back to her fire, her smile gone. She didn't want Picard knowing too much about the rituals, not just yet. Despite what she had said, she had every intention of testing him. But it was important that he not know he was being tested.

* * *

"Commander, incoming call from Starfleet."

"Put it on main viewer," Riker ordered. "About time, too," he muttered under his breath.

The starfield on the viewscreen faded out and was replaced by the head of the Vulcan Head of Starfleet Temporal Operations, Admiral Borat.

"Greeting, Admiral," Riker said, standing up.

"Commander, we have succeeded in locating Captain Picard and Lieutenant Commander Data," the Vulcan began without preliminaries. "The chronowarp vortex was an exceedingly strong one, which assisted our investigations considerably. It was very easy to trace, and we have not only a firm lock on the time, to within seven significant figures, but also the probable area."

"And?"

"Would you like me to take you through the calculations, Commander? They are really quite fascinating. We have seldom had such a strong and unambiguous path: it is almost a textbook case. I believe that even you would have little problem in following the basic mathematical concepts."

Riker took a deep breath, and tried to ignore the typical Vulcan insensitivity to emotions and feelings.

"Not at this time, thank you Admiral. Could you just give us the results?"

Borat looked somewhat disappointed, but complied.

"Certainly, Commander. Briefly, the x-epsilon chrono-dimensional axis was found to extend on a near-constant sigma-theta radial, intersecting the q-alpha continuum line at precisely negative-32,012,919.0538291," Borat finished, looking quite pleased with himself.

"Could you perhaps express that without hyper-mathematics?" Riker asked, unwilling to appear a fool, but sure the Vulcan was toying with him.

"Of course Commander. I apologise. I should have remembered humans are not as adept at certain mental functions as we Vulcans. Essentially, Captain Picard and Lieutenant Commander Data re-entered normal space-time on Stardate negative-32,012,919. In other words, in October of 29691 BC by the old Earth calendar. 32,061 standard Earth years ago."

"Thirty thousand years in the past!?" Riker sat down heavily. Thirty millennia! How could they go after them with such a vast time difference?

"And twenty-six point seven light years away," Borat helpfully added. "The distance travelled by the solar system in that time."

"Thank you, Admiral. It was good of you to contact me directly," Riker said.

"Not at all, Commander. I know how humans value personal relations, so am sure Captain Picard is probably quite important to you. Live long and prosper. Borat out."

The viewscreen switched back to its default starfield, and Riker passed a hand over his beard.

"How are you feeling, Will?" Troi asked, a look of concern on her face.

"Ill," Riker replied, meeting her gaze unhappily. "How are we going to get thirty thousand years into the past?"

"Didn't Captain Kirk use the sun to slingshot around once or twice?" Troi asked.

"Yes, but that was only a few hundred years," Riker replied. "We need to go a hundred times farther into the past. A slingshot around the sun won't work. I don't know how we can do it though." He stood up, and addressed the conn. "Assemble the senior staff in the Observation Lounge."

* * *

**NOTES:**

I did try and research the significance of colours in cave art, but found nothing. So I made that all up.

I added the bit about the Earth moving (the distance is accurate, btw, based on the 250km/s that the solar system moves) as a deliberate dig at all those time-travel SF stories that ignore space as well as time.

And yes, Admiral Borat's 'treknobabble' is a definite parody of such. There's more to come, as it's fun to write, but I always give translations! A lot of the treknobabble, esp to come, is lifted more or less verbatim from things like Wikipedia articles on advanced mathematics, so it uses real words and concepts, just very very badly.

For non-EC fans, assuming any read this: Ayla and Marona got off to a bad start, with Marona being jealous of Ayla and Jondalar's attraction to Ayla.


	6. Stone Walls

**6. Stone Walls**

"This is Salova's hut," Ayla said as she scratched on the stiff leather hide that served as a simple door. They entered, and at the sight of them the young woman inside jumped up, her face full of expectation.

"Have you…?" she asked.

"Yes, Salova, this is the poultice. Apply it to Rushemar's wound three times a day, and leave it each time until the poultice is dried up. Keep the rest of it covered."

"Thank you! And thank Zelandoni as well. May the Mother watch over you," the young woman said as she took the pot and knelt by the side of a bed-platform. Ayla watched her as she gently uncovered the prostrate form of her mate, who had suffered a nasty goring on the latest hunt. The leg was healing nicely, but it was still infected, and the poultice Zelandoni had brewed would draw out the evil spirits that caused the white pus, helping to heal it.

Picard winced despite himself at the sight of the angry wound on the man's thigh. It was a long raw gash, and he was worried at the state of infection. But he kept silent, not offering to help, and was relieved that Ayla didn't turn to him for the use of his instruments. This was obviously a common and easily-treated injury among an active outdoor people, and he breathed easier as he saw the studied calm in Ayla's face. There was concern there, but not worry, and he was sure the man would be fine.

"How often do accidents like that happen?" he asked as they left the hut.

"Not that often," Ayla replied. "Hunts don't usually result in serious injury, but every so often something goes wrong. An animal doesn't go where it is herded, or a hunter gets in too close to deliver the final blow. Don't people hunt where you are?" she added, laughing.

"I am not a healer or a hunter," Picard said truthfully. "But yes, sometimes we have some very serious injuries, which test even our powers." He thought of his artificial heart, the souvenir of a long-ago encounter with an angry Nausicaan, and smiled wryly as he wondered what Ayla would make of it. "How many people live here?" he added, looking around at the forty or so huts scattered under the vast shelter of stone.

"The Ninth Cave has about two hundred people," Ayla said. "But there are five other Caves along the river. Perhaps eight hundred people all together. It's a lot for one area, and sometimes there isn't quite enough food for us all."

"What do you do then?" he asked.

"We trade," she said. "Or send hunting parties out on long-range missions that last up to an entire moon. But because there are so many people, there are always caves with a little more food than others, that can share in lean times, and there are always strong hunters available."

"Life sounds good."

"It is," Ayla said simply. "This is the richest and most fertile area I have lived in. I don't know what more people could want for. So we are content."

"I can imagine," Picard said as they came out of the shelter and he looked along the riverbank, seeing the people working and chatting and laughing, children running and playing games. Nearby, a group of men were comparing flint axeheads, and beyond them three women were working on a deer hide stretched on a drying frame. He could smell meals cooking, and over by the river some laughing children were playing with sticks, pretending to be hunters. The sun was dipping low, and the narrow valley was bathed in a rich warm glow. He took a deep breath, then slowly let it out again. "I can very well imagine," he said softly.

* * *

"So, any thoughts?" Riker looked around the room. Worf, La Forge, Dr Crusher, Counsellor Troi, and himself. It seemed very empty without the captain or Data, he thought. Even with the added presence of Dr Leah Brahms, the room seemed lacking in vitality. He was reminded of the time the captain had been kidnapped by the Borg, when Admiral Hanson had promoted him to Acting Captain in the same room. He never forgot the Admiral's chilling eulogy for Picard, his recount of Picard's determination and drive in the Academy marathon decades ago, and how the captain would never, never give up. "He is a casualty of war," Hanson had said. But they had proved him wrong: Picard was not the only stubborn one on the Enterprise. Riker was just as tenacious, and if there was even the remotest chance of rescuing his captain, he would take it.

"I'll be honest with you, commander," La Forge began, after looking around the room. "It's not looking good. To get enough speed to slingshot around the sun to go back thirty millennia is… well, faster than the Enterprise can fly. Sorry commander, but that's how it is."

"What about the new engine upgrades?" Riker asked. "Can they give us the extra speed?"

"I'm afraid not, commander. They're designed more for maximum sustainable speed rather than short sprints. We could perhaps push out a bit more at the top end, but not enough, I'm afraid."

"Any other ideas?" Riker looked out over the table. No one looked back at him.

"Commander Riker," Brahms said. "Might I ask you something?"

"By all means, doctor," Riker said.

"Have you asked Starfleet on Earth what their solution is?"

"Not yet," Riker admitted. "I was hoping not to have to deal with Admiral Nechayev."

"Well, are you aware that Starfleet possesses a Temporal Displacement Drive? Perhaps you could ask to borrow it."

"Could one be fitted to the Enterprise?" Riker asked.

"No problem," La Forge said. "I've seen the schematics of one, and although the workings were classified, the dimensions and power hookups are fully compatible with Galaxy-class starships."

"The only problem might be power consumption," Brahms said. "A Galaxy-class starship puts out nearly thirteen billion gigawatts of power, but temporal displacement power requirements are tricky. The affine transformation of the diagonalizable matrix requires a similarity transformation in which the eigenvalue is not equal to normal integers. The subspace translation of the vector space manifold is a co-set of linear subspace, which, applied to a homothetic transformation, means that the similitude ratio is perilously close to one," she finished.

"Good…" Riker said slowly. "What do you think about that, Geordi?"

"I don't know about you," Troi interrupted, "but that could have been in Classical Vulcan for all the sense it made."

"I agree," Crusher said. "We're not all experts in trans-dimensional engineering."

"My apologies, Doctor," Brahms said. "However I felt it necessary to be accurate rather than simplistic."

"What she was saying, doctor," La Forge translated, "is just that the Enterprise might barely have enough power to use one over such a great distance, but we'd have to get extremely close to warp ten – infinite speed. So there are two problems. One is that the Enterprise simply can't get that fast slingshotting around the sun. And another is that I don't know how well built these things are, and from a more practical point of view, it may well not be able to take the energy input."

"So we're back where started? Nowhere?" Worf growled.

"Not at all, Mr Worf," Riker said. "I'm going to contact Starfleet. Maybe they can think of a way around this mess. Dismissed."

* * *

"Commander Riker, I quite understand your desire to rescue your captain, but you are simply not the most qualified person for the job." The unsmiling face of Fleet Admiral Alynna Nechayev stared back larger than life at Riker from the giant viewscreen. "This is a job far better left to the experts in chrono-technology on Earth. We have two liaison officers from the 29th century on staff at all times to deal with precisely such situations."

"With all due respect, Admiral," Riker said, trying to keep at least some respect in his voice, "it is the duty of any serving officer to undertake the search for his – or her – superior officer. The Enterprise will be ready to resume full operational status within a day or two. All we need is a temporal displacement drive."

"Commander, this is not a matter for discussion. There are people here far more suited for such operations and it is they who will be sent. I will not authorise the installation of a chronodrive on the Enterprise for such a mission. The Department of Temporal Investigations will be able to send out a team in approximately a month."

"A month!" Riker exploded. "You propose to leave Captain Picard and Commander Data stuck in the Stone Age for a month?"

"Not at all, Commander," Necheyev said, a slight smile playing about her face. Riker could tell she was enjoying this. "They will be able to arrive at precisely the same time Picard and Data arrive. You are in command of the Enterprise until further notice. Now there is no need to discuss the matter further. I suggest you and your crew enjoy a well-earned break. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," Riker said, with an unnecessary emphasis on the 'sir'. "Riker out."

The image vanished from the screen, and Riker glowered, embarrassed at having forgotten about the time issue, or rather, embarrassed at having been made a fool of by the Admiral. "She's still not forgiven the captain for letting the colonists in the Demilitarized Zone remain. I'll bet those investigators won't arrive when she says they will either."

"The Admiral would not lie, surely?" Worf said. Deceit from a commander was unthinkable.

"She didn't promise a thing, Worf," Riker said. "Remember, she only said they could arrive at the same time. It doesn't mean they will."

"So how long do you think she'll leave the Captain down there?" Troi asked, seeking reassurance.

"She has no wish to harm the Captain," Riker said. "I should imagine no more than a couple of weeks."

"And what if the captain is dead in a couple of weeks?" Worf muttered as Riker resumed his seat in the captain's large chair.

"Then they will try again and go in earlier," Riker said. "Simple, enough, I suppose."

"I hate time travel," Worf growled, and Riker found himself in full agreement.

* * *

Jondalar sat and looked at his unusual guest, not sure what to say. The slim young man opposite him sat alertly on the sleeping platform, but remained silent. Jondalar found the silence rather un-nerving, and he rather wished Ayla was here. She was far better at dealing with strangers than he was.

"So, uh, Data," he began nervously.

"Yes, Jondalar," his guest replied smoothly and politely. "Is there something I can assist you with?"

"Uh, well…. Uh, what is it you do – do you have a trade, Data?"

"I serve in Starfleet, Jondalar," Data said.

"Yes, I, uh, know," Jondalar said. _Doni, this wasn't going at all smoothly_, he thought. It wasn't that Data was rude or intimidating at all, it was just that he gave no assistance whatsoever in the conversation. "But what do you do? Do you hunt?"

"I do not hunt," Data said.

"Uh, very well. Do you – what about knapping? Are you a flint knapper?"

"I am not," Data replied politely.

"Forgive my bluntness to a guest," Jondalar said, exasperated. "What exactly do you do then?"

"I serve in Starfleet," Data repeated.

Jondalar ran a hand through his untidy blond hair. He drummed his fingers briefly on the edge of the sleeping platform he was sitting on, and took a deep breath.

"What does that mean?" he asked eventually. "What is this thing you talk about? Could you explain? Is it something to do with serving the Mother? You talk of stars – do you study the stars?"

"In a sense, yes," Data replied. "Starfleet's mission has always been of exploration and discovery."

"So you are an explorer?"

"Yes, that is a very good description," Data agreed.

"Where have you been?" Jondalar asked, finally glad to have something concrete to discuss. And since he himself was remarkably well-travelled, he hoped they would find some common bond. He rather wished the older man, Picard, was here instead – he had shown real interest and enthusiasm in Jondalar's blades, and the tall blond man would have loved to swap stories on the finer points of knapping technique and where the best flint deposits were where Picard came from.

"I have been to many different places, far away from here," Data said.

_Oh no_, Jondalar groaned. _Not again_….

"Such as?" he prompted.

Data paused, then Jondalar thought he almost saw a slight shrug. "Mars, Vulcan, Risa, Betazed, Qonos, Bajor," he said, and stopped again.

"I do not know those places," Jondalar said. "Are they far?"

"Very far," Data said. The android looked at the man, and regretted that he could not be more open. It was a safe bet to reel off a list of names of other planets – they would mean nothing to Jondalar. But he could not risk telling him too much. Nothing that would cause him to question his world-view. The Prime Directive was very strict, and unlike humans, Data did not have the option of breaking it: his programming was absolute. Silence was the easiest option, even if it was somewhat awkward.

"What's the farthest you've ever travelled, Data?" Jondalar asked. "Have you been to the far-distant sea to the East that I have heard exists?"

"If it is the one I think you are referring to, no," Data replied. While he had been to the Pacific Coast of the United States, he had never been to the Pacific coast of Russia or the Sea of Japan before.

"What about the Great Sea to the West?"

"Yes, I know that one," Data said.

"They say that there is no shore on the other side of that sea," Jondalar said quietly. "Men who go out too far never return. No other sea is like that. The Great Sea is cursed, I believe."

"All seas have farther shores," Data said. "Some are merely farther than others."

"Perhaps," Jondalar said slowly.

"Jondalar, there you are," came a new voice.

"Joharran!" Jondalar jumped up, pleased not so much that his half-brother was here but that there was someone else to talk to. "When did you get back?"

"Just now," the older man said. "It was a good trip. We got some good flint for you, too," he added, handing his half-brother a large leather-wrapped package.

"Flint from Dalanar! Thank you!"

"It hasn't been blessed yet, though," Joharran warned. "You might want to get the First to take care of that tonight."

"Of course. I'll do that."

In all enterprises of significance, the spirits that formed the world of the Upper Palaeolithic required pacifying before their gifts could be used. When you took something from the Mother, it was only right to offer thanks, either to her or to her many manifestations. Jondalar wouldn't dream of knapping flint until he was sure he had the Mother's permission to use her body, any more than hunters would dream of killing an animal without thanking its spirit for the offering of life.

"Good afternoon, Joharran," Data said, rising to his feet to greet the newcomer. He knew who this new man was from the story of Ayla and Jondalar's journey, and greeted him with the deference due a leader.

"Uh, greetings," Joharran said, confused. He did not recognise the man, and was puzzled by his appearance.

Jondalar quickly took care of the introductions, and Joharran smiled. "You are of course welcome to stay with us as long as like. Winters can be dull at times without new friends to share stories with. I hope you have plenty."

"Tens of millions," Data said, but the two men just blinked. A million was not something they had ever heard of. But they gathered it was a great deal, and Jondalar grinned.

"Perhaps I won't have to recount the story of our Journey so much," he said.

"I'd feel sorry for you, son of my mother," Joharran said, "if I didn't know how much you loved being the centre of attention. But we are neglecting our guest," he said, turning to Data.

"Guests," Jondalar corrected him.

"Two visitors? Twice as good!" Joharran said. "Where is the other?"

"Out talking to Ayla," Jondalar said. "I think they went to see Zelandoni. Picard, our other guest, is One Who Serves, so I imagine that's where they would have gone. He wants to see Doni's Deep."

"He does, does he? Where is he from?"

"Not too sure exactly where," Jondalar admitted. "But he was born not too far from here apparently."

"Even better – a long-lost cousin! We shall have a feast tonight, Jondalar, to welcome our guests. What say you?"

"Have I ever refused a feast?" the taller man grinned.

"Not since you were sick with that stomach illness when you were seven," Joharran said. "I shall make the preparations. Friend Data, I shall see you then and welcome you and your companion to our cave formally at that time. In the meantime, of course, please accept the hospitality of our humble abode and consider it as yours."

"Thank you, Joharran," Data said. "Your words are most kind. We will look forward to the feast and the honour you do us."

"Tonight, then," Joharran said, and left.

* * *

"Tonight?" Riker looked at the young woman in front of him. Dr Leah Brahms looked younger than her years, and her direct and merciless manner was perhaps a way to remind people to take her seriously.

"I understand you are in a hurry, Commander," Brahms said, making some cryptic notations on the Padd she was carrying.

"It's just that I'd prefer to do the initial tests during Alpha Shift," Riker said.

"Well, you can either wait a day, delegate, or stay awake," Brahms said. "I will be, after all."

"Of course, doctor," Riker said. "What time would you be ready to start?"

"Twenty-three hundred hours. I'll need La Forge with me in Engineering."

"Of course. I'll see that he's there."

"Good." The young woman turned to leave, but then paused. "And if you're thinking of taking this ship thirty thousand years into the past, I suggest you give the engines a few light-years to settle in first."

"Thanks for the warning, doctor," Riker said, returning to his seat.

Leah Brahms headed into the turbolift, Riker already forgotten as she corrected some calculations on the Padd and ran a few rough simulations in her head.

"Oh. Engineering," she said to the computer after she realised the turbolift hadn't moved.

A few moments later she stepped out into the main engineering room of the Enterprise. It was full of people putting the final touches to the reassembly of the warp drive. She scanned the room, and quickly spotted La Forge supervising the reinstallation of the dilithium crystals, the heart of the warp drive. Suppressing a smile, she headed over to him.

"Hey, Doc," La Forge grinned as he saw her – or rather, as his brain processed the multitude of electromagnetic waves that his VISOR detected. What he saw would not be recognised by most normal people as a human female, but to La Forge, the patterns he saw were unmistakable, and beautiful. But he wasn't about to make the same mistake twice – he had fallen for her hologrammatic simulation, only to find the real Leah Brahms very different, and very married. Now, a couple of years after that rather embarrassing incident, they were good friends, but nothing more.

"Geordi, did you fix the AE35 unit?"

"All done," he said. "All working perfectly –well, better than perfectly."

"It'll need to," Brahms said seriously.

"Yeah." La Forge's habitual smile vanished. "Thirty thousand years – it's a hell of a jump."

"You'll need to push the engines to their maximum, however we manage this," Brahms said. "And they won't be fully tested. I don't like this, Geordi. Not at all."

"Well, we'll do a shake-down run first," La Forge said. "Take her out to the Oort Cloud or something."

"Not far enough," Brahms said. "I told Riker we'd need more. I'd suggest at least twenty-four hours – give the ship some cruising time at maximum sustainable warp. Somewhere like Alpha Centauri would be good. About twenty-five hours at warp nine."

"Not a problem," La Forge said. "Now, come on. Tell me the truth. What was the last time you ate?"

"Uh, ate?" Brahms looked surprised. "Uh, this morning I think. Oh-nine-hundred or so. Why?"

"Well, to celebrate getting the engines back on line, why don't you let me cook you up one of my specialities? Alaskan crayfish, courtesy of Commander Riker, pan-fried in butter and garlic, topped with a delicate cheese sauce of my own invention."

"Not tonight, Geordi," Brahms said absent-mindedly as she ran down another set of figures on her console. "We're starting the main engines at twenty-three, remember."

"I know that," La Forge said, almost pleading. "But that doesn't mean we can't take an hour off to have a relaxing meal. Come on, what do you say?"

The young woman looked at him. "Oh Geordi, I know you're only trying to be hospitable. I do appreciate it, really. But can we at least make it tomorrow night?"

"Excellent! I'll be waiting – and so will the crayfish! Oh, did you talk to the Commander?" La Forge added, remembering why she had gone up to the bridge in the first place.

"Yes," Brahms said. "He's going to keep Alpha shift on for the initial powering-up. Don't think he really trusts Beta and Gamma shifts – at least not when he's not around."

"Nah, he's just a bit protective of the Enterprise," La Forge said. "And it's his duty to be there for her, with the captain gone – I mean, with the captain absent."

* * *

**NOTES:**

Trek purists will note I have called the Klingon Homeworld by its name (Qonos) rather than "Klingon Homeworld" as it was referred to in televised TNG, but that was silly. I have also written it at "Qonos" rather than "Qo'noS"... A few changes to spiritual rituals such as the blessing of the flint - I felt in canon EC they were a little too cavalier about looting the earth. Stone means a LOT to these people, after all.

The first couple of days of story time are basically Picard and Ayla getting to know each other, and the setting up of the Enterprise's problem, which isn't too hard to solve really. I need time for Picard and Ayla to start to trust each other before I can begin to explore the central themes and ideas I have in mind.

Spellchecker wants to change "encounter with an angry Nausicaan" to "encounter with an angry Musician" and I am sorely tempted to let it….

According to Memory Alpha, the power output of a Galaxy-class starship is around 12.75 billion gigawatts of power. A bit more than my car. And a bit more than needed to send a DeLorean through time.

I have no idea what "The affine transformation of the diagonalizable matrix…" means, but it's real technobabble. They're all real, mathematical terms.

The warp factor speeds/times are as accurate as I could get. Memory Alpha is essential for writing Trek fic….

"AE35" is my minor shout-out to "2001 A Space Odyssey."


	7. Let Us Sit Upon the Ground

**7. Let Us Sit Upon the Ground**

Picard's head was spinning. Normally he seldom drank genuine alcohol, but he had been unable to refuse the many cups of crudely-fermented grain spirits that had been pressed on him. He passed a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes, and tried to focus. In front of him was a large bonfire, roaring in the centre of a circle of people. A carcass of venison was slung over the flames, sending out a rich smell of roasting meat. It was already missing a hind leg, part of which lay on a wooden platter in front of Picard. Around him people were laughing and talking and eating and drinking, some more ostentatiously than others. He noticed more than a few couples who were more interested in each other than the party, and smiled. This could be a scene from his Academy days, from some of the campouts on the wilderness survival training course. Humans were the same everywhere. However the clothing was different. Even his was: he had asked Ayla if she could provide him and Data with local clothing, so they would blend in more, and Picard was now wearing a soft leather tunic with raised braiding made from leather strips stitched on it in winding patterns, and a pair of leather trousers that felt rather heavy and cumbersome compared to his uniform, which he was wearing underneath it, but were remarkably warm. He and Data had also been given jackets made of small pieces of fur sewn together in contrasting patterns, the fur side in. He fingered the soft leather, impressed with both the artistry and level of skill involved, both of which were far beyond anything he had been expecting.

"Jean-Luc, tell us of your Journey."

Picard looked up to see Joharran smiling down at him, and holding out a cup of the fermented drink they called 'barma'. Marthona, the co-leader of the Ninth Cave, was also with him.

"There really isn't that much to tell, you know," Picard said, wondering what he could in fact say. "This is the first encounter we've had since leaving."

"How long have you been travelling?"

Picard thought quickly. "About three weeks," he said, trying to estimate the rough amount of time it would take to walk from the Bay of Biscay to central France.

"Pardon – what is a 'week'?" Marthona asked.

Picard swore to himself. It was tricky trying to keep knowledge from them when he did not know exactly what they knew or did not know.

"My people divide the moon's phases into four periods we call 'weeks'," he explained, hoping he hadn't irrevocably changed the future development of concepts of time. He was hopeful that at any rate they were far enough in the past for any serious mistakes to be undone: cultural evolution followed a fairly standard path, barring accidents such as the great extinctions caused by meteorite impacts, and in numerous civilisations across the galaxy it was found that by and large concepts did not arise or survive in a vacuum: there had to be supporting ideas to permit them to flourish. While it was obvious that telling them in great detail how a warp drive worked would not have any impact on their culture, as they lacked the technological base on which to build, even telling them the truth about the sun and the stars would be unlikely to have any long-lasting impact, as their own social structure was far too rigid to allow such radical change. However that was only valid if the contact was brief and not repeated: extensive contact over a long period of time was another matter entirely.

"I see," Marthona said. "But nearly an entire moon, and you saw no-one?"

"Not no one," Picard said quickly, wondering how populated France was at this time. "But no group nearly as large as yours."

"I don't think there are any," Joharran said proudly. He looked around the hundred or so people that were eating and drinking, and thought of the many more that lived in the caves and hollows up and down the river. This was one of the richest and most fertile areas he had heard about, ideal for hunting and fishing and gathering, close to many migration routes, and sheltered from the worst of the winter storms by the steep valley walls. He couldn't imagine a better place to live, and was sure that was why the Mother had chosen to allow his people to find it, many generations ago.

"Did you meet a people called the Kalamaii?" Marthona asked.

Picard shook his head.

"A pity. I once travelled that way and made friends with a young girl called Taluria there. It would be nice to know how she is doing."

"I'm afraid I cannot help you." Picard looked at her crestfallen face and found himself wondering what it would be like to never hear from a friend again. In his time, no matter how far from Earth he was, subspace radio could reach him in a matter of hours at most. He was never alone, even at the edges of known space, separated from the nearest Federation outpost by thousands of light-years. But here, across distances the Enterprise could cover in less than the blink of an eye, communication was limited to that most fundamental of all speeds, the human walking pace. These people faced what was, in its own way, a vaster gulf than that between the worlds of the 24th century. It was a humbling thought.

Just then there was a booming thump, and he looked up, startled. Two men had dragged out a hollow log with a long opening down the middle, and began beating on it rhythmically. Their pace quickened, and soon climaxed with a tremendous dual thump that echoed and re-echoed off the cliffs. As if by some signal, the gathering grew quiet. Zelandoni, Marthona, and Joharran rose, and gathered before Picard and Data.

Marthona spoke first. "In the name of the Mother, we are honoured to welcome here to the Ninth Cave two travellers from distant lands. We offer them the shelter of stone, the warmth of fire, and the friendship of the hearth, and hope they will freely accept them all."

Picard bowed, but before he could reply, Zelandoni took over.

"Doni, in the name of the Ninth Cave we ask you to accept these two travellers and watch over them. In their name, we offer you this blade, that symbolises the antagonism of two peoples, and request that you show us your will."

With that, Zelandoni threw the slim flint blade she had been holding up onto the hard stone ground, where it shattered into pieces, showing the refusal by the Earth Mother to allow conflict and discord between the two groups of people.

"Now, as leader of the Ninth Cave, I offer you the tongue of the deer," Joharran said, motioning to Picard and Data to step forward. He held out a delicately-carved wooden bowl, on which something dark and wet glistened in the firelight. Picard tried to keep his expression neutral as he realised it was the raw tongue of the deer that was barbequing nearby. Joharran looked at him, and nodded. Picard took a deep breath, cleared his mind of thought, and picked up the tongue. It was heavier than he expected, cool and wet in his hands. Focusing his attention on the man in front of him, he took a big bite. His mouth was full of blood and raw meat, and he felt as if he were about to be sick, but with an effort he rapidly chewed the tender meat and swallowed. Beside him, Data took a delicate bite and returned the rest of the tongue to the plate. Although he was an android and did not require food, he was able to hold small amounts in an internal chamber, which helped him fit in at social gatherings. However his capacity was limited, and the food had to be brought back up later before it went bad, so he avoided eating and drinking as much as possible.

As Data put the meat back, there was a round of applause, and someone started banging the drum again. Through the flickering flames Picard could see Ayla looking at him, her expression unreadable. He smiled, and was pleased to see her smile back before she turned to Jondalar.

"I have never been offered raw tongue before, captain," Data said quietly. "How did you find it?"

"Not as bad as I feared, Mr Data," Picard admitted. "It was rather like steak tartare, or sashimi. However it was a bit bloody for my tastes."

He turned as someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was the rather ugly man who had been offering everyone barma all evening. Brukeval, or Laramar, or whatever his name was. The man grinned, showing badly-damaged teeth, and proffered the bag of alcohol. Picard held out his cup, made from a bison horn cut off and fitted with a wooden base, and it was soon filled to the brim with the pungent liquid.

"Good drinking, stranger," the man said. "Mine's the best barma in the region – drink up."

Picard took a swig, and as the fiery liquid burned his throat he hoped that Data had some good remedies for hangovers. As he lowered his cup he felt another tap, and found himself facing a young woman carrying a plate of fish. She broke off the head off one, and offered it to Picard.

"Thank you, uh, miss…"

"My name is Folara," the young woman smiled. "Welcome to the Ninth Cave. How long are you staying?"

"Uh, not long, Folara," Picard said. "We're really just here to visit the cave of Doni's Deep."

Folara's face darkened. "That place is dangerous. Sometimes people go in there, and never come out."

"They get lost?"

"Yes, but not their bodies. Their minds. They go in, and we find them lying there, wide awake, but they make no sound, they cannot hear us. Please, be careful if you go in there," she begged.

"I'll be all right," Picard assured her. "Zelandoni will be with me."

"Take Ayla as well," Folara said in a quiet voice, looking around. "Don't go in there without Ayla."

"Why is that?"

"She knows the spirit realm – she has been there, she has seen it," Folara said. "She knows it better than Zelandoni, and she can protect you."

Folara looked around again, and hurried off. Picard looked after her, puzzled by her remarks. He was not inclined to dismiss her warnings offhand: he had seen and heard too much in his career in Starfleet. The universe, he often reminded himself, was not only stranger than we imagine, it is stranger than we _can_ imagine. Was there something about that cave that caused this, and this was why it was considered such a sacred and deadly place? Well, he would hopefully find out before too long. He resolved to have a talk with Ayla sooner rather than later, however, to see what he could learn beforehand.

Ayla watched the short stranger talking to Folara, and then stand quietly and move out of the circle after her friend had hurried away. She couldn't hear what they had said, and knew it was none of her business. But she felt responsible towards Picard, since it was she who had brought him to the Ninth Cave. Standing up, she headed over to him. He was looking up at the night sky, the stars shining in the black velvet night. He seemed to be seeking something out, but she couldn't imagine what. The mysteries of Those Who Serve were deep and complex, and she didn't presume to imagine she knew more than a smattering of lore. She stood near him, waiting patiently until he acknowledged her.

"Ayla, good evening," Picard said after a few moments. "I'm sorry, I was just looking up at the stars."

"You looked as if you were looking for something, Jean-Luc," Ayla said. "What is it you seek?"

"Understanding," Picard said slowly, his mind not as clear as he would have liked. "As always. Who we are, what our role in the cosmos is, where we are going…."

"The questions of Those Who Serve," Ayla said softly. "Do you know the answers?"

"No," Picard said sadly. "Not to all of them, and only slightly in the ones I do know. I am but a dabbler in such things."

"Perhaps the hearth-fires of the ancestors are only the beacons on the way to that knowledge, rather than the answers themselves," Ayla said, looking up at the arch of heaven, studded with the tiny fires of the past.

"Sorry, the hearth-fires?"

"Is that not what your people believe? That the stars are the hearth-fires of the ancestors?"

"Not exactly, no," Picard said. "But... you could say we believe that in a way they are our ancestors, just more remote than we can imagine."

"I should enjoy talking with you about the stars," Ayla said, looking at Picard strangely. For some reason, she suddenly felt as if he himself was from the stars, as if they were his home. She blinked, and the feeling was gone.

"I should too, Ayla," Picard said. "But right now I feel far too drunk to talk about anything coherently. Let alone astrophysics and cosmology."

"What shall we talk about then?" Ayla was confused by his words, but let them pass.

"Let us…sit upon the ground…and tell sad stories of the death of kings; how some have been deposed; some slain in war; some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed; some poison'd by their wives; some sleeping kill'd…." Picard said cryptically. He looked at the tall woman beside him, and laughed. "An old legend from a famous story-teller, full of sound and fury, signifying…nothing. None of which have ever happened yet anyway."

"I do not understand," Ayla said, confused.

"No, nor do I. Nor do I…."

"Captain, you are tired," Data interjected, joining them. "Perhaps you should rest."

"Good idea, Mr Data," Picard said, rubbing his temples. "That barma stuff is almost as bad as Romulan ale. But not as blue."

"Here, take these," Data said when they were out of the light. He gave the Captain two small pills.

"Excellent, Mr Data. Let's hope this won't happen every night," Picard said, and swallowed the pills. His head began to clear, the world returning to normal focus.

* * *

_Commanding Officer's Log, Supplemental. We are about to fire up the newly-enhanced warp drive. Dr Brahms and Commander La Forge are down on the main engineering deck, in case anything goes wrong, but I do not think it will. The Kozinsky Equations have been tested in numerous simulations and have not failed for the last ten versions. I have full faith in the engineering genius of Dr Brahms and Commander La Forge's intimate knowledge of the Enterprise's systems._

Riker shut off the log, and settled back into the captain's chair.

"Main viewer on," he ordered. The large screen switched to a view of the spidery encircling arms of the Utopia Planitia shipyard dry docks, with the red and barren face of Mars far below.

"Ahead one-quarter impulse," he ordered. Without the slightest shudder, the huge vessel slowly began to gather speed.

"We are clear of the dock, commander," said the conn officer.

"Full impulse until we get past areostationary," Riker ordered. An almost imperceptible hum was the only sign of the added power. There was no change in the starfield, and nor would there be: the maximum speed of the impulse drive was well below light speed.

"Areostationary cleared sir."

"Course three-five-two mark seven," he ordered.

"Course plotted and laid in, sir."

"Warp one, engage," Riker said, sitting back in the chair as the low hum built up and the starfield blurred and distorted into the familiar streaks of light caused by Cherenkov radiation – the mysterious glow emitted when super-relativistic particles moving faster than the local speed of light were forced to slow down when they escaped the warp shell. As the particles crossed the warp field, they were repeatedly accelerated to faster-than-light velocities and then slowed to normal speeds; part of the visual manifestation of Einsteinian space in subspace.

"Warp one sir," announced the conn.

"Keep increasing until warp nine," Riker ordered.

The streaks of light lengthened, and the humming increased in pitch as the massively powerful engines of Starfleet's flagship gathered their energies. Riker looked at the hypnotic lights on the screen, hoping that this time the warp core would behave itself: it was only a few months since the previous attempt at enhancing the warp core with interphase technology had led to the crew being invaded and attacked by unusual interphasic beings. It was an episode Riker preferred to forget, and he hoped that this time there would be no weird beings caught up in the warp field.

"Warp nine, sir," announced the conn.

"Right, take her up to warp nine-point-nine over ten minutes," Riker ordered. The warp speed scale was based upon the amount of power required to transition from one warp plateau to another, and became an asymptotic curve as it approached Warp Factor Ten, the theoretical limit that represented infinite speed. Warp 9.9 was about a third faster than warp 9.6, and, if all went well, the Enterprise's new maximum sustainable speed.

Riker's nervousness grew as the ship's speed increased. The hum was now definitely audible, and he could feel it through his seat. He kept an eye on the chronometer and warp factor indicator on his armrests as the minutes ticked by.

"Relax, Will," Troi said calmly. "Geordi and Leah know what they're doing."

"Yes, but I don't know what they're doing," Riker said, "and that's what worries me. The last time we tried anything Kozinsky came up with we were thrown halfway across the universe, remember?"

"That was years ago, Will. His work since then has been meticulous and even a little bit conservative. There's nothing to worry about."

"Except getting the ship back thirty thousand years to rescue the captain and Data," Riker said.

"Of course. We will. I know you care deeply for both of them, Will," Troi said.

"We all do, Deanna," Riker replied. "We all do. And we'll get them back."

"Warp nine-point-nine, sir," conn announced.

"Geordi, how are the engines doing?" Riker called out as the computer automatically relayed his message to the engineering room.

"Singing like a canary, commander! Music to my ears!" Geordi's enthusiasm was palpable even on the bridge, and for the first time Riker allowed himself to relax a little.

"Commander, we should return to impulse drive, so I can run a few tests," came Brahms' voice.

"Very well. Signal all stop," Riker ordered.

"Engines answering all stop, sir," conn replied as the warp field vanished and the stars resumed their familiar shapes.

"How long will it take to run those tests?" Riker asked.

"Not more than a few hours," La Forge replied. "But we need to wait until the engines are cold first."

"How long will that take?"

"We'll get onto it in the morning, commander, if that's acceptable."

"Fair enough." Riker rubbed his beard. "Right, schedule whatever tests you need for the morning, and don't wake me unless the ship explodes. I'm off to bed."

* * *

That night Picard lay on a bed of cured furs, looking up at the rough rock roof of the cave, soot-blackened with age, and lit dimly by the flickering embers of a dozen hearth-fires. He could hear the sounds of people around him echoing off the abri roof: quiet conversations, the occasional clunk or thump of something being moved, the crackle and hiss of fires, and the low breathing of sleeping people. His mind was racing with the events of the day, trying to sort them out, to make some sense of them. Tomorrow he and Data must go to the shuttle wreckage, which was not far away apparently. Hopefully there would be something salvageable, though he doubted it. Falling from several kilometres up would have caused severe damage. He only hoped the dilithium chamber was not cracked or damaged too badly in the crash, or else it might begin leaking anti-matter. He knew that under normal circumstances you could drop a shuttle directly on the Earth from the orbit of the moon and its anti-matter containment pods would hold, but passing through a serious chronowave distortion did strange things to the fields that held in the vast power of the anti-matter engines. Time was a strange beast, Picard reflected. The normal laws of cause and effect did not apply in Time-Space, the chronometric equivalent to normal Space-Time. Events could precede causes, but not necessarily, or only sometimes. And trying to tame its unimaginable energies was an immensely complex business. He only hoped that Riker and the others were able to get to a time insertion point as close to his as possible. He was acutely aware that they could be years out – either way. At least once they found the signature of the shuttle they'd be able to find Data and him very easily. That was some comfort to him as he lay under the cold stone of the remote past.

.

* * *

**NOTES:**

Details of the clothing are based on Inuit clothing patterns, especially those from the mummies dating back over 500 years that were found in the 1980s with their clothing intact. The hollow log is based on a Polynesian drum I saw in a museum. Hollowed out from the top, with a long slit. The blade ritual is made up, but seems like it could work. I've generally taken a few liberties with the Ninth Cave feast/introduction scene, adding a bit more of a spiritual aspect, and the tongue is pinched straight from "Dances with Wolves" but used differently. I have no idea what raw tongue tastes like, and hopefully never will. I can't even stand cooked tongue.

Picard's musings about the strangeness of the universe are based on JBS Haldane's famous quote about "…the Universe is not only queerer than we suppose, but queerer than we **_can_** suppose."

After Picard gazes at the stars, he quotes Shakespeare's Richard II, Act 3, Scene 2. I thought it fitting for a Shakespearean actor.

You can't have a geostationary orbit around Mars. "Geo" means "Earth," after all. The correct terms is "areostationary," from Ares of course.

Cherenkov radiation is a real thing, and some fan speculation has it that the streaks are similar radiation spikes, as they very clearly are not actual stars.

The reference to an episode Riker would like to forget regarding "interphasic beings" is a reference to the episode Phantasms (7x06).


	8. A Deeper Well

**8. A Deeper Well**

_Commanding Officer's Log, Stardate 48424.59. Commander La Forge has just told me the warp engines are ready to be fully tested for a twelve-hour run at warp nine point nine. Not a moment too soon. Despite Admiral Necheyev's refusal to allow us a temporal displacement drive, I intend to take the Enterprise into the past anyway, the old-fashioned way._

"Slingshot around the sun? No, we can't do it, commander. I've checked. Dr Brahms was right – we simply cannot get enough speed, or turn tightly enough. The gravity well isn't deep enough."

Riker's face fell. "I was hoping you would be able to tell me it was at least barely possible."

"I'm afraid not, commander. The ship can't handle it. We need more speed. It might be possible to lower the mass of the ship using a focused subspace field from the deflector array, except that we need that for the inverse tachyon field…."

"Any other problems?" Riker said, his face weary.

"Yes, lots," La Forge said bluntly. "Even if it works and if the Enterprise doesn't tear herself apart, I just can't guarantee we'll be anywhere near the right time when we come out."

"It doesn't have to be the same minute, or even the same week," Riker said.

"Seriously, Commander, I'd be hard-pressed to get the right year."

"How close can you get?" Worf interrupted, skipping ahead of the immediate insoluble problem in favour of one that looked easier.

"I'd need to run some simulations," La Forge said. "Best case scenario at this stage, I'd say we would have a two to four month window."

"We can't hang around for four months, even if we can get back at the same time. Not good enough."

"Not yet, but as I said, once I've run some simulations, I should be able to get it down to a month – that is, two weeks either side of their original insertion point."

"And how do we get back?" Worf asked.

"That's the easy part – we just reverse the equations," La Forge said. "Back just a few minutes after we leave, taking into account initial acceleration. No one will know we were ever gone, Commander – including Admiral Nechayev."

"Good," Riker grunted. He wasn't happy about going behind the Admiral's back, but at least she hasn't given him a direct order. She had merely refused to supply him with the tools for the job, so he was going to do the job, tools or no tools. He was in command, and the Enterprise was his, as she had confirmed. So it was time for some shore leave on Earth – thirty millennia ago. "Now try and find us a way to get that extra speed. You have twelve hours."

"And here I thought I was going to be rushed... Okay, I'll get on it right away, Commander." La Forge hurried back to the turbolift. The doors hissed open, and he entered. When he was alone in it, he rubbed his temples, grimacing. Thirty thousand years into the past? No one had ever gone that far back, not even with a chronodrive, let alone slingshotting around the sun. _Is it even theoretically possible_, he asked himself. _Dammit Geordi, you're an engineer, not a theoretical physicist. Ah, wait, but Leah is a theoretical engineer_, he reminded himself. _Of course_….

"Computer! Locate Dr Leah Brahms!"

"Dr Brahms is in her quarters," replied the dispassionate mechanical voice.

"Excellent. Deck Eight," he ordered the computer, and the turbolift shot off again, its inertial dampers concealing any sensation of movement at all. In a few moments the doors hissed open again.

"I really must see if I can't do something about the noise starship doors make," La Forge muttered to himself as they hissed shut behind him. He hurried down the long curving corridor. "Ah, here we are."

He pressed the intercom switch "Leah, it's Geordi. Do you have a moment?"

"Just a moment." The door hissed open, and Leah Brahms stepped out. "I was just on my way to see you, Geordi," she said.

"What about?"

"Well, Commander Riker wants to take the ship into the past, right? And it's an even bet that Necheyev won't let him have a temporal displacement drive. Or did I hear the rumours wrong?"

"You heard right," La Forge admitted.

"No surprise there. She's only been permitted one, and doesn't want you to break it. So what are your options?"

"You know we only have two other options, Leah," La Forge said. "Find a convenient Borg ship, persuade it to go back to Earth in thirty thousand years ago and ride on its chronometric particle wake, or…"

"Or do what Kirk did twice with the original Enterprise," Brahms finished for him. "However, you have a problem – the Enterprise simply can't go that fast."

"Yeah, we need to figure out a way to get a bit more power from the engines," La Forge said.

Brahms looked at him strangely, a slight smile playing about her features. "Do we?" she asked softly.

"Well, yes, you know we need more speed," La Forge said.

"I assure you, I know it very well," Brahms said. "But do you?"

"Yes, I…" La Forge broke off. "I – of course! I've been blind!"

"You only figured that out now?" Brahms said, looking at his VISOR.

"How could I not have seen it? It's so simple!" He tapped his communicator pin. "Commander Riker? Geordi here. I know how we can get more speed."

"How?" came Riker's disembodied voice.

"You remember I told you we needed more speed, and the Enterprise's engines couldn't give us any more power?"

"Yes. And?"

"We just need a steeper hill," La Forge said. "We use the gravitational well of the sun not just for the acceleration and lateral subspace translation into c-space for the time jump, but to increase our speed. So a star with more mass will drag us in that much quicker, and, more to the point, have a steeper gravity well. That's where we get the added speed from."

"Excellent. Good work, Geordi." The relief in Riker's voice was evident through the intercom.

"I should have seen it earlier, commander. I wasn't thinking," La Forge said. "There's another advantage as well. Roughly speaking, a super-dense stellar mass like a black hole causes a hole in not just space but time – time ceases to exist as one dimension but can be accessed from three, allowing us to travel to any time. The slingshot effect, using the light-speed breakaway factor, allows us to recreate a similar effect in subspace using the sun's gravity well. The farther back we need to go, the bigger the sub-space black hole needs to be. So if we use a much denser star than the sun we can create a bigger opening with less relative speed – with a big enough star, thirty thousand years will be easy."

"Where do you have in mind?" Riker asked.

"We'll do some thinking, and let you know commander," La Forge said.

"Keep me posted. Riker out."

Brahms looked at La Forge, smiling. La Forge loved it when she smiled. She looked like she was planning some huge cosmic joke, some impish jest. It was a smile that radiated fun rather than just happiness.

"So, Geordi, now that you have set our good commander at ease, which star shall we choose?"

"Well, there are any number we could use," La Forge said.

"True. But we don't need to go too far. We're travelling at warp nine point nine for twelve hours, so we'll be about four and a half light years from Earth. Nothing good that close, but there are a few candidates in the ten to twenty light-year range. Where would you suggest?"

"Ummmm," Geordi said, uncomfortably aware that Brahms was testing him. He was sure she had already worked out the ideal candidate, and was waiting to see if he was up to her level. "Oh, I know. How about Epsilon Hydrae A, at two earth masses? Or wait, no: what direction are we heading? Okay – how about Sirius B – it's a white dwarf and so the intense gravitational field would make up for its slightly smaller-than-ideal mass."

"Good choice, Commander. Sirius B was what I would have recommended. It should provide easily enough of a gravitational well to slingshot back that far."

"Yeah, too much farther and we'd need a real black hole," La Forge joked.

"That was almost funny, Geordi. But keep trying," Brahms said as she turned away to hide her smile. "Now you just need to plot the orbit and run some simulations."

"Yeah, child's play," Geordi groaned.

"Well, come on then," Brahms said, smiling openly this time. "We've got some work to do!"

"We?"

"What, you think I'm going to pass up an opportunity to calculate the orbit for a thirty-thousand year slingshot? I could get several papers out of this, as well as be keynote speaker at the next Daystrom conference. It's going to be on Risa, the pleasure planet, after all – can't pass that up."

"Well, we have twelve hours to figure out an orbital path and velocity," La Forge said. "Then the commander is going to want to take us back to the Ice Age."

* * *

Picard was dreaming. He was back home in France, at his family's house in LeBarre, among the gently rolling vineyards. He could hear the sound of the neighbourhood children playing in the morning sun, feel the gentle breeze of an early summer zephyr brush his cheek. But then the scene shifted; the children's voices faded out, and he found himself floating alone in a vast black void, tumbling in an infinite darkness.

His eyes snapped open, and saw rough blackened rock. It took him a moment to remember where he was, and when he was. Thirty thousand years ago, at the dawn of human culture, the beginning of everything.

"I am glad to see you awake." The cave woman called Ayla was kneeling by his bed, offering him a steaming cup. He took it, and sipped at its contents. It was a tea of some herbs he did not recognise. He sighed softly. A pity the people here would never know the rich complex flavours of Indian, Sri Lankan, or Chinese tea, he thought. But he had to admit the brew he was drinking was an interesting substitute.

"What is this made of?" he asked.

"Alfalfa and alder, with a sprig of mint," Ayla replied.

Picard looked in his cup. He could see a few small leaves and bits of vegetation in it, but he was no botanist. He doubted he could even recognise alder if he saw it.

"Interesting. I haven't had that before," he said.

"What do you normally drink?" Ayla asked.

"Earl Grey," Picard said, knowing it would mean nothing to her.

"Early grey what?" Ayla asked, confused.

"It's made from the leaves of a plant we simply call 'tea', but with added bergamot, a type of citrus, for flavouring. But I don't think either plant grows around here," Picard said.

"Did you bring any with you?" Ayla asked. "I always like to carry a supply of herbs for teas, as well as medicines."

"No, we didn't," Picard said. "Probably should have," he added to himself.

"Good morning captain, Ayla," said Data, coming into the room from the smaller area at the back of the Visitors' Hut.

"Did you sleep well, Data?" Ayla asked, offering him a cup of tea.

"I passed a most enjoyable night, thank you," he said. "And yourself?"

"Well, the baby was a bit fractious, but that's normal," Ayla said.

"You shouldn't be worrying about us when you have a baby," Picard said, his face concerned. "We can take care of ourselves, really."

"No, she's playing with Jondalar now. She's fine," Ayla said happily.

"Jondalar's her father, right?" Picard asked, wanting to get family connections straight - it wasn't always straight-forward in primitive societies. But he was surprised by Ayla's reaction. She sat and stared at him, breathing deeply.

"Tell me, Jean-Luc, how you think babies are created," she said quietly.

"Uh, perhaps it would be better if you told me," he said, not knowing what her views were. "I would be interested to hear your ideas."

"Do you think it is possible that the man can also contribute to the baby?" she asked eagerly. "It's not just him opening her up for the spirits, is it? There's something more involved, isn't there?"

Picard looked at Ayla carefully, assessing the situation. What he said now could affect the intellectual development of the entire human race, so he needed to tread carefully. There would be no harm in agreeing with a theory, but he needed to be careful not plant ideas in her head.

"Tell me what makes you think this," he said slowly.

"But do you agree?" Ayla asked, looking at him eagerly. "You know I'm right, don't you? I can tell."

"Please, Ayla, I would love to know why you think this. It seems you are in a minority, correct?"

"Yes, I am. Few care to join me in my thoughts, but I know I am right." She looked at Picard, and at the unusual appearance of his trusted companion, and decided he would not be shocked. "Let me tell you why I think this." Quickly, she told him of her adoption by the Clan and the birth of her son. She could see rage and amazement on the older man's face as she talked, but not disgust.

"He raped you when you were twelve," Picard breathed. "Ayla, I don't have the words to express my sadness and anger at what he did to you, but what you have told me about your son Durc is amazing. We did not know that – what was the term you used? – the Clan could interbreed with us. My people have speculated about it, but we have never known for certain."

"Do not men sometimes take Clan women where you live?" Ayla asked. "Or perhaps, Clan men take your women?"

"Ayla," Picard began sadly, "The people you know as the Clan… they have not lived in our land for a very long time. All we know of them are their remains," he said.

"Where have they gone?" she asked, a small knot of fear forming in the pit of her stomach. The worry about the future she had managed to suppress since the strangers arrived rekindled, and increased in strength.

"We do not really know," Picard said. "All we know is that there are none left. How many are around here?" he added.

"Very few," she replied, her face downcast. "Creb told me that they were leaving, that soon they would be gone. It has already begun, I see."

"Creb was your adopted father, wasn't he? He sounds like a wise man," Picard said.

"He was the great Mog-Ur, the wisest of them all. And even he couldn't prevent it. Even he can't stop my dreams, my premonitions."

"What dreams are these?" Picard asked.

"Just… dreams," Ayla said. She wasn't ready to talk about them yet, but she sensed the stranger would be able to interpret them better than she herself could. Perhaps even better than Zelandoni. "Would you like to take a walk?" she asked.

"Actually, yes," Picard said. "I haven't really had much of a chance to look around."

"Come, then," Ayla said. "There's someone I want you to meet."

* * *

"You tamed a wolf? Impressive," Picard said, looking cautiously at the animal. "Most attempts that I have heard about failed."

"You know of other people who have befriended wolves?" Ayla was unable to hide her disappointment. She had hoped that she was unique in taming Wolf, but it seemed not to be the case.

"Well, I've heard it's been done – but never as well as this," Picard said. The animal Ayla called Ulf, which she had explained was the Mamutoi word for 'wolf,' was sitting at her feet like an obedient puppy. Picard was almost tempted to pat him, but didn't want to risk a bite.

Ayla was amused at the older man's reluctance. She had seen it many times before: it was a common reaction to Wolf.

"He won't bite," she said. "Go ahead. He loves being tickled behind the ears."

Picard gingerly brushed his hand against the rough fur of the large canine, which growled softly.

"He likes you," Ayla said happily.

"Ah, good," Picard breathed. He was no more comfortable around dogs than he was around children, although his aversion to the latter had become somewhat diminished through serving for seven years on a starship full of them. But it wasn't full of dogs, and he was still not sure how to handle them. He stood back up, and looked expectantly at his hostess.

"Is there anything in particular you would like to see?" Ayla asked. "No, stay, Wolf. Jean-Luc and I are going for a walk."

"No, let him come if he wants to," Picard said. "I'm just not used to him yet, that's all."

They were at one end of the great wide mouth of the abri, the eastern, where all the huts were clustered in the area where they were able get the maximum amount of sunshine. Picard saw how they were made of stone on the lower levels and of wooden frames covered in hides above, although sometimes the stone extended the full way up. The hides were decorated in ornate designs, and he moved closer to one hut to examine them. They were beautifully rendered pictures of animals and various abstract symbols painted in black and many vivid shades of red, yellow, and brown. Bison, deer, wild steppe horses, and above all the great and powerful mammoth.

"Why do you decorate your huts in this way?" he asked.

Ayla blinked. She hadn't really thought about it. Art was not her strong suit, and although she had developed an appreciation for it, largely thanks to Ranec, she was generally of a more practical bent.

"Does it have some religious or spiritual meaning?" Picard was asking.

"I'm sorry, I never really asked anyone," Ayla said. "I don't think so."

"They're incredible," he breathed. He bent down and looked at the animals, lost in thought. The creation of art meant the creation of abstractions: the substitution of a symbol for the reality. The use of symbols was an important step towards being able to convey meanings through these symbols not just to a small group of people, but to many people, and over a long period of time. In short, it was the first giant step on the path towards writing, the single greatest invention of the human species. Picard felt his spine tingle as his fingers gently traced the intricate detailing of the animals that defined the world of the Palaeolithic.

"It's beautiful, whatever its purpose," he said softly.

Ayla was quite surprised by his interest. Surely his own people had similar art? She asked him.

"Our art is…different," he said. "Nor better, or worse. Just…different."

Ayla sensed he was holding something back, but not from malice. She sensed he wanted to tell her, but couldn't. Probably because I am not a full member of Those Who Serve, she told herself sadly. I know that Zelandoni has many secrets as well.

Picard stood up, and walked on, Ayla following him. He looked around, seeing hides being cured in frames, and long shafts of spears, apparently in the process of being straightened, leaning against a crosspiece supported by two posts. Baskets in different stages of completion were stacked in another place, and thongs were drying stretched between pairs of bone posts. Long skeins of cordage hung from pegs pounded into crossbeams above unfinished nets stretched across a frame, and loosely woven netting in bundles on the ground. Skins, some dyed various colours, including many shades of red, were cut into pieces and nearby, partially assembled articles of clothing were hanging. It was a busy life, but not overly hard. People were laughing and chatting, children were running free among the huts and working adults.

He headed out to the central area, clear of huts, where gatherings and feasts were held on days when the weather was inclement. There was a large firepit in the centre, and he wondered which archaeologist would be poking through its remains in another thirty millennia. Then he remembered that the cave system had collapsed by the time modern archaeologist were to take an interest in it. His mind's eye saw an image of the massive rock that hung above the entrance, and he headed out into the wide area that ran down the river, and looked up.

Ayla followed him, noting his interest in the Falling Rock, and it worried her. She had had enough nightmares, or visions perhaps, that involved that rock and Creb leaving her, and the fact that Picard, the stranger who had arrived when she had had another vision of Creb leaving her, was taking an interest in it disturbed her considerably. She was glad when he turned away without comment, and smiled at her.

"How many other caves are inhabited around here?" he asked.

"Six," Ayla replied. "Although more were inhabited in the past. People change caves from time to time."

"Captain." Data came up to them. He greeted Ayla, and then turned to Picard.

"Yes, what is it, Mr Data?"

"With your permission, captain, I should like to return to the shuttle to see what items of value I can salvage from the wreckage."

"What about the radiation levels? Didn't you say there was a danger of leakage?"

"Yes, captain, but I should be quite safe for a short period. We do not yet know for certain how serious the leakage is, either. It may not be a good idea to leave it here when we depart."

"It wouldn't be a good idea anyway, Mr Data," Picard said quietly. "We must not leave any traces of our visit here. It would be…rude to our hosts."

Ayla had not followed much of the conversation. The reference to a shuttle made her think of weaving – Marthona called the small wooden stick she passed through the strands a 'shuttle,' but what this had to do with the two strangers she had no idea. Nor was there any sense to the word 'leakage' in this context. And what was 'radiation'? Was it to do with The Mother? She was sure she had never heard any of the Zelandonis use the word.

"Very good sir," Data was saying. "I should be back before noon. With your permission, then."

"Make it so," Picard said.

Data nodded, and headed off.

"What was that about?" Ayla asked curiously.

"We, uh, left some equipment back near where you found us," Picard said, looking after Data and not at Ayla.

"I found something strange, come to think of it," Ayla said. "Just before I found you, I heard a huge noise."

Picard stiffened. "Yes?" He tried to keep his voice calm, but knew he wasn't succeeding.

_He knows something about this_, Ayla realised. _Perhaps he can help me understand what it means_.

"A long scar in the face of the earth," she said, looking at him closely. "There was something at the end, too. Like a tent of stone, but glowing like a green fire."

"Did you go near it?" Picard asked, and Ayla was shocked at the intensity of his question. He looked at her hard. "Tell me, did you go near it?"

"No, I felt something was wrong, something dangerous about it," she said.

Picard visibly relaxed. "Good. It might be dangerous. I am expecting some companions to join me in a few days, and we shall get rid of it together."

"What is it?" Ayla asked.

"It is something that does not belong here," Picard said. "I am sorry, but I cannot tell you more at the moment."

"Is it…dangerous?" Ayla asked, suddenly struck by a premonition.

Picard was silent for a while, his eyes clouded. "I hope not," he said. "But perhaps you should tell your people not to go near it until we can be sure."

"I will do that, Jean-Luc," Ayla said. "But if you are able to counter this attack on the Mother, then please do so."

"I will," he said. "I give you my word. Now, shall we continue our walk?"

* * *

**NOTES:**

Why do Trek doors hiss so much? It annoys me. And that's really all the notes for this chapter.

[Posted 4-4-14]


	9. An Inner Light

**9. An Inner Light**

"No, no, no, no, no! That will never work!" La Forge thumped the console in exasperation.

"Yes it will, Geordi," Brahms said patiently. "Look, see this section here? That's where we can compensate for the lateral shear. The trilateral function of the polynumerator works to stabilise the gamma-r-z factor. All we have to do is modify the deflector array to emit the inverse tachyon array, and we're home free."

"I'll need to see it in simulation," La Forge said suspiciously. "Computer! Run program Brahms three-nine!"

The simulated engineering deck vanished, and they found themselves apparently hanging in the blackness of space. In front of them, a tiny projected model of the Enterprise was heading towards a bright binary star system. Its warp nacelles flashed a bright blue-white, and it blurred into a multi-hued streak as it shot towards the suns, faster and faster. Hanging in the void, a digital readout gave them acceleration figures and other data, which Brahms and La Forge rapidly cross-checked with their padds.

"Nine-point-nine-five," La Forge muttered as the ship reached the smaller of the two suns, and was almost lost in the simulated glare. "Computer! Show gravity wells!"

A complex array of glowing green lines suddenly appeared around the star system, showing how space-time was being warped by the mass of the suns. The smaller, Sirius B, showed a far denser banding, as it was twice the mass of Sol, but only the size of the Earth. And it was to that that the Enterprise was headed, now at warp nine point nine-eight. That was not a speed it could sustain in real life for more than a few minutes without serious strain on the hull. La Forge bit his lip as the tiny ship snapped around the star, and then exploded.

"Damn! Computer, restore engineering room simulation!"

"Well, that didn't work," Brahms said quietly. "How odd."

"How odd? How _odd_? How odd for us when we're the ones exploding on the far side of Sirius?"

"Calm down Geordi," Brahms said, tapping at the main engineering console. While it was just a holographic projection of light and forcefields, the computer was analysing her movements and instantly relaying them to the real engineering console. The ability to not only test experiments in the Holosuites but also to perfectly simulate every part of the ship meant that they were often used for theoretical work such as this.

"Okay, I think I see it now," she added after a few moments. "You – uh, we – forgot to compensate for the Nuclear Doppler Effect. At that speed every electron of the Enterprise is slightly Doppler-shifted twice in each orbit, along the line of subspace motion, and as they were under such an intense gravity well at the same time, they were phase-shifted out of sync just enough to break their bonds. So the whole ship literally turned into so much sub-atomic dust, leaving the anti-matter fuel to react with anything it touched."

"And boom," La Forge said dully. "Great. How do we stop that?"

"Not sure," Brahms admitted slowly.

"Oh great."

"But I have a few ideas. Come on, Geordi, don't look so depressed! Professor Templetor's research on micro-fusion reactions in high-gravity environments could be useful. Let me just go get my notes on him. Computer! Exit!"

Brahms hurried out of the Holodeck, Geordi looking after her. He shook his head slowly.

"I'm amazed she ever slowed down enough to get married," he said to himself, and turned back to the console.

* * *

"Ayla, greetings!"

"Good morning, Proleva," Ayla smiled. "Do you remember Jean-Luc?" she added, gesturing to the man beside her.

"We met last night, I believe. I don't really recall – I had a bit much barma I think."

"I think we all did," Picard said. Provela…was he introduced to her last night? He'd met so many people it was hard to keep track. Wait, now he had her…. "You're Joharran's mate, correct? The first lady of the cave?"

"I'm sorry – the first lady?" Proleva looked confused, as did Ayla.

"It's what we term the leader's wife in my land," Picard explained.

"No, I could never accept such a title for myself," Proleva said. "Zelandoni is the First, and always will be – until Ayla takes over, that is."

"I haven't even joined yet," Ayla said, and Picard could see her flush.

"I know you will," Proleva said. "How can you not? The Mother has given you such great gifts. You will bring honour and glory to the Ninth Cave, mate of my mate's brother."

"Thank you, Proleva," Ayla said, her voice somewhat distant. She turned, and carried on down the riverbank. Picard followed after her, turning over what he had just seen in his mind. He did not say anything, however, as he sensed it was a delicate topic, and certainly not one that he should become involved in. Even without the Prime Directive, Starfleet officers were strictly forbidden from interfering in the internal affairs of other peoples. Even when such interference would benefit the Federation, as in the case of Bajor and the new anti-Federation spiritual leader, Kai Winn, they had recently chosen.

They crossed a small tributary stream, and carried on down.

"This is Down River, the area set aside for general projects," Ayla said, indicating another large abri made up of two connected shelters. In it, several men and women were working. "It is where the people of the Zelandonii, all the caves in the area, gather together to work on projects and share ideas and stories."

"Would they mind if we had a look?"

Ayla laughed. "Of course not! They'd love to see visitors. But watch your feet – there can be sharp flint pieces scattered around. We have to tell the children not to come here with bare feet."

"I should be all right," Picard said. Though he had covered his Starfleet uniform with Zelandonii clothes, he was still wearing his regulation boots. They were not too dissimilar to the leather boots everyone else was wearing, and so far had attracted little attention.

Ayla greeted a few crafters who were still around the stone shelter at the north end of the terrace, working on some project, and introduced Picard. They looked up and nodded, and returned to their work.

"Do not be offended, Jean-Luc," Ayla said. "They are merely busy. If you wish to ask questions, go ahead."

"Thank you," Picard said. "Yes, I do have a few questions."

He hurried up eagerly, and was soon lost in conversation. Ayla watched him go, and sighed. She found him a puzzle. What did he know? What was he concealing? Why did he seem so ignorant of certain everyday things? She knew that despite his limitations he was intelligent and wise, like Creb, and like Creb, there was an air of lingering mystery about him. It reminded her of what she had felt between Creb and herself after the Root Ceremony, when she had shared his mind, his visions. There was the same feeling of a vast, uncrossable gulf yawning between them.

"Ayla!" Jondalar's voice jerked her out of her reverie. "Jonayla's calling for you!" He held the infant out to her mother, who cradled the child tenderly.

"Thank you, Jondalar," Ayla said. "Are you going to work on the flint today?" She nodded her head towards Down River.

"Yes, I was hoping to finish the blade I was making for the ceremony," the tall man answered. "And since Jonayla wanted to be with you, I thought this was a good time."

"She was insistent, was she?" Ayla asked, a slight smile playing about her lips.

"Yes, very," Jondalar said. "I couldn't keep her quiet."

"Indeed? So she calls out for me while sleeping, does she?"

"Uh, um, well, I…she must have fallen asleep as I was bringing her to you," Jondalar finished, his face pink.

"Never mind," Ayla said softly, looking down at the peacefully slumbering face of her baby. "You go off and flake your stones. Make beautiful blades to honour the Mother, and let this mother honour her guardian spirits and totem by caring for the child they have brought her."

"Thanks," Jondalar said, already halfway to the cave. He strode up to the flint area, and was pleased to see the visitor sitting there, engrossed in conversation with Ranokol. The latter looked up as they approached and nodded a greeting. The stranger turned, and smiled.

"Greetings, Jean-Luc," Jondalar hailed him, and was greeted in return by the older man. "I am glad to see you here. Today I intend to make a blade to honour the Mother, one that will be offered to her at the Cave Ceremony in a few days' time. Would you be interested in observing?"

"It would be an honour," Picard said with feeling.

"Don't let me keep you," Ranokol said. "Jonadalar is a far better knapper than I, and besides I am only making axe-heads here."

"I am grateful nevertheless, Ranokol," Picard said. "Thank you for your time."

"Come on, over here," Jondalar said as he led the way to his favourite knapping spot. "Watch your feet," he warned, kicking away a few of the larger shards that littered the area. He sat down on a low rock, and motioned to Picard to sit opposite him. Taking out a small leather bundle, he opened it carefully.

"There, look at that," he said proudly, showing Picard three lumps of rock that seemed to almost glisten in the sun.

"Raw flint," Picard commented. He leaned in closer, examining the rocks. They were about twenty centimetres long, smooth and dark.

"Pick one up," Jondalar urged. "Feel anything different about it?"

Picard hefted one up, and ran his fingers along its surface. It felt slightly slick, almost as if it had been oiled, but he didn't know what he was supposed to be feeling. His puzzlement must have shown on his face, as Jondalar took it back from him with an air of distinct smugness.

"It's been heated," he explained. "These are three nodules that I split from a larger one that I heated by fire. When flint is heated very hot before it is worked, you have much more control over the stone. Wymez, a master knapper I knew among the Mamutoi, taught me this. Watch."

Jondalar wrapped a leather strip around his left hand to protect it, and then used it to hold the stone. With his right, he picked up a small bone tool, which he placed against the edge of the stone, and pushed. To Picard's surprise, a long flat sliver of stone quietly separated from the flint. Jondalar did not need to smash stones together to make tools: this was no random bashing of rocks, but an almost surgically precise act of creation. He watched in fascination as Jondalar worked his way around the stone, delicately easing off the parts he did not want until he was left with a long thin leaf-shaped blade.

"There is nothing so satisfying as seeing a perfect blade take shape, one that turned out just the way you planned," Jondalar said as he turned the stone back and forth in the light. He took another, smaller, tool and began flaking off small slivers along the back of the blade, evening it out and creating a delicate rippled pattern.

"It's beautiful," Picard breathed. The entire process had taken less than thirty minutes, and during that entire time, Picard had not so much as shifted position. To be granted the opportunity to observe a master at work was not one to be taken lightly, and despite the vast gulf of time and technology that separated them, Picard knew that Jondalar was as much a master of his craft as any warp engineer of the 24th century.

"Here, take a look," Jondalar said, passing it over. Picard took it gingerly, and ran his finger lightly along the edge. It was lethally sharp, just slightly denticulated by the scars of the many tiny flakes that had been removed. He ran his fingertips lightly over the surface and felt the small ridges left behind by the many similar tiny flakes that had been detached to give the flint point such a fine, precise shape.

"Very nice," he murmured. "A work of art, indeed."

Jondalar grinned, very pleased with himself. The newcomer might not know much about making blades, but he certainly appreciated them. Jondalar was sure he must use them himself in Mother rituals, and was glad his work compared to the best that his guest's people had to offer.

"Do you want to try?" he asked, holding out another nodule.

"I have never tried it," Picard said. "I would ruin your stone."

"Never?" Jondalar asked, raising his eyebrows. He couldn't remember a time when he had not been playing with stone, at first hitting rocks together at random, then, under the bemused and later increasingly strict guidance of the older men, learning the subtle ways of the stone: how to tell at a glance if a nodule was usable, how to get the thinnest blades, how to create spearheads that did not shatter on impact, and now how to heat the raw stone to bring out its inner fire. "You mean you never even played around with stone as a child?" he added.

"Not really," Picard admitted.

"You want to give it a try?" the taller man asked.

Picard shook his head, refusing Jondalar's offer. He knew that whatever clumsy misshapen object he created would make a mockery of the achievements of these people, and the level of their culture. As a child, stone had been little more to him than the building blocks of his house. Later in life, he had often seen and admired the elegant sculptures in marble that were some of the greatest legacies of the Classical Age of ancient Greece and Rome, as well as the masterpieces of Michelangelo and Cellini and the refined classicism of French Baroque under Louis XIV, but he realised that nowhere before had he felt such an affinity between the art, the artist, and the stone as now, in a river valley thirty thousand years before any of the great works that were considered masterpieces by his own people.

* * *

Data crested the final ridge and jogged down to the ruined shuttlecraft. He took out a tricorder and scanned the area, his brow furrowing in a subconsciously activated program. Folding it shut again, he headed up to the rear door, and prised it open, the plasti-steel groaning in protest as he did so.

Inside, the soft green glow was even stronger. Data knew that he had to act quickly: even he could not withstand the radiation indefinitely. Swiftly but methodically, he rummaged through several lockers, gathering what he needed into a large pouch. Finally, he went to the control panel, and scanned what remained of its readouts. Then he pressed a switch, and opened a small control panel. Twisting two keys, he then pressed another, large, switch. A red light began flashing, and a synthesized voice spoke.

"You have activated the warp core ejection program while on a planetary body. This may prevent successful ejection of the warp core. Please give your security code to enable countdown."

"Data, alpha two-zero, zero-zero-three, destruct," the android said.

"Code authenticated. Warp core ejection countdown started. You have ten minutes to reach minimum safe distance."

Data picked up his bag, and left the shuttle. He retreated a few hundred metres and waited patiently. At the exact moment his internal chronometer indicated, there was a blinding flash, and something was shot out of the rear of the shuttlecraft, half burying itself in the loose earth. He headed back, and examined it. The object was about two metres long and thirty centimetres in diameter, and was pulsating softly. Data picked it up without apparent effort, his feet sinking somewhat into the ground with the added weight, and carried it inside the shuttle. He slid open a panel on the top of the cylinder, and pressed a series of buttons before placing the cylinder on the emergency transporter pad.

"Computer, set transport co-ordinates zero, zero, one thousand," he ordered.

"Co-ordinates set," replied the computer.

"Energise," Data said.

The cylinder shimmered and flickered and was gone in a haze of glowing atoms. It rematerialised far above the Earth, and exploded in a soundless cataclysm of light and radiation that for a brief moment rivalled the sun in its intensity.

Satisfied that he had neutralised the radiation threat, Data began the long walk back to the Ninth Cave.

* * *

"What in the Mother's name was that?" Ayla said, looking at the sky.

"What was what?" Picard asked, joining her after Jondalar had gone to put the new blade away. Ayla had also given him Jonayla to put to bed, as the baby was still sleeping. Picard had been looking at the slivers of flint he had picked up off the ground, and had not seen what Ayla had.

"I don't know – somehow, it seemed as if there were two suns in the sky," Ayla said. "A sudden bright burst of light, across half the sky. What could it mean?"

"I would not care to guess its meaning," Picard said, not needing to. He knew only thing could have caused that, at this point in human history. "We each need to give it our own interpretation."

"But do you think it means the Mother is angry?" she asked nervously.

"Why would you think that?" Picard asked.

Ayla looked at him, seeing the concern on his face. There was something else there too. He seemed to know a good deal more about this than he was letting on. Since he was the One Who Serves for his own people, she decided he did in fact know what this meant, and was testing her. But there was no fear or worry on his face, so perhaps whatever this was, it wasn't dangerous. But, she asked herself, suppose he was wrong?

"I…I don't know," she said, feeling rather foolish for having panicked. "I've just been…worried these past few days. I have bad dreams. As if something bad is going to happen. But not to us, at least not yet."

"I hope nothing bad does happen," Picard said. "I will do what I can, but what I can do is limited. But do not worry too much about dreams. Live not in dreams but in contemplation of a reality that is perhaps the future, as a famous storyteller once said."

"What does that mean?" Ayla asked.

"It means that this, around us, the solid reality, is more important than dreams."

"That is a strange thing for One Who Serves to say," Ayla said, looking at Picard strangely. "Do you not believe dreams are important?"

"Yes, they are important. But we must not forget that real life is more important – that is the message. Dreams can be a guide, but nothing more. They do not define reality. It is our actions and our dreams that determine the future, not our dreams alone."

"What dreams do you have, Jean-Luc?" Ayla asked. She regretted it instantly, as a look of pain crossed the older man's face.

"Dreams of the past…bad ones, sometimes."

"Mine are bad sometimes too, but they are of the future."

"Ayla! Did you see that?" Marthona came up to them, pointing at the sky. "What was it?"

"I do not know," Ayla said. "A sign from the Mother, perhaps."

"Is it?" Marthona turned to Picard, questioning.

"It is very hard to interpret signs," Picard said. "It is my experience that when a sign means something serious, it will be unequivocal. If you need to ask, then it is not a sign, or at least not important."

"Perhaps," Marthona said, clearly not prepared to let it go that easily. "I am going to ask Zelandoni. I think you should talk with her as well when you are free, Ayla. This might have some bearing on what you told me by the river yesterday."

"Thank you, Marthona. I will," Ayla said. "I think it might too."

"Oh, you left this the last time you brought Jonayla over," Marthona added. She held out a long thin bone, pierced with several holes.

"Jonayla's flute! I was looking for this! I thought I must have left it with Joharran! Thank you!"

Picard looked at the bleached white bone Ayla was holding, marvelling. He had read about a few bones found in Palaeolithic graves, even Neanderthal ones, that might have been flutes, but because there was so little of the bone left, there was great controversy over whether they were flutes, or whether an animal had made bite holes in the bone. Here, at last, was incontrovertible proof.

"Do you like to play?" he asked Ayla.

She smiled. "Jonayla likes it, and if she likes to hear it, I like to play it. I should go and take this back now – Jondalar is looking after her, and he can play better than I can."

"Might…might I see it?" Picard asked hesitantly, drawn to the instrument by another of his dreams.

Ayla looked at him and shrugged. "Of course."

She handed it over, and Picard went to a stone seat just inside the southern cavern of Down River. Ayla joined him, and for a brief time he just sat there, silent and unmoving, gazing at the simple instrument. Then he gently fingered the bone flute, feeling the holes, the rough surface. Finally, compelled by some inner urge, he put it to his lips and gently blew. A soft plaintive sound escaped, echoing in the uneven rock chamber. Picard placed his fingers on the holes, and began to play a simple tune, one that he had played many times before, in another lifetime.

Ayla watched in awe, marvelling at the ornate sounds the old man was able to coax out of such a simple instrument. She herself had no more ability to play than to sing, so to her this was true magic.

"Where did you learn to play?" she asked when Picard had finished his tune and had put the flute down. She could see that it had moved him a great deal; when he played there was an expression of great loss and sadness in his face. It meant something important to him, she knew, and perhaps to her.

"It was a long time ago," Picard said, letting his mind drift back to his memories of Kataan. "It was… it was not me. I… I don't know how to explain this. It was someone else's memory, someone else playing that flute, a man called Kamin, a man I was and yet was not. A vision of a man's life that I lived, for many decades."

Ayla remained silent, watching him as he trailed off, deep in thought. She knew it was an immensely powerful vision quest that could share an entire lifetime. Most visions were just fleeting glimpses of other memories and ideas. Even Creb and the others, powerful as they were, could only tap brief, unconnected moments when they took the Root. Were there other, more powerful substances out there that could clarify her visions? Perhaps then she could see what they really meant – the images were so fast, so strange, that she couldn't begin to make sense of them otherwise. She sat and waited for him to continue, sensing that he wanted to talk about it.

"It was like a dream, but was not," Picard eventually added. "Through some means that even now we do not fully understand, I was put in a trance and relived another person's life. Every day, every moment, every person around me was real, was alive – I was that person. I was Kamin – and Kamin is still part of me. But it was not us that called out to them: the vision was given to me from a dying people. Their world was ending, and they had nowhere to go. But somehow, we do not know how, they managed to save the memories of one man, which they sent out into the cosmos. And those memories found me, and so as long as I still remember them, they are never truly gone. They remain within me, like an inner light."

Ayla sat still, pondering the meaning of this. His memories – his experiences with a dying people, who had given their knowledge through a vision to another. At that moment, she knew. It was the same. There was no longer any doubt. The stranger from a distant land was not here by accident.

"Jean-Luc," she said softly, "can I ask you about my dreams?"

.

* * *

**Notes:**

Hope there aren't too many heinous errors with the flint scene - I based it on a couple of scenes in TMH and SOS, though I have never really followed the knapping scenes that well - it's something that needs to be seen, really.

The Nuclear Doppler Effect is real, but not in the way I described it. I actually made it up completely, but it seems that there is another phenomenon called that name. The rest of the technobabble is, as usual, real terms used badly.

"Live not in dreams but in contemplation of a reality that is perhaps the future" is from Rainer Maria Rilke, _Selected Letters_.

Picard's mention of his vision is of course from the episode "The Inner Light," in my not-really-humble opinion, one of the finest Trek episodes ever made. It's not vital to have seen it for this story (I hope) but if you have seen it you'll appreciate all the more just how much it affected him.


	10. Sundive

**10. Sundive**

"Right, the simulation checks out. Finally," La Forge said, wiping his forehead. "I gotta hand it to you: you, Doctor Brahms, are a genius."

"Yes, I know," Brahms said, completely seriously, but then she gave a quick smile. "But let's be honest Geordi – you don't get to be Chief Engineer of the Federation flagship by being a moron either."

"Well, at least not all the time," La Forge allowed. "Shall we tell Commander Riker the good news?"

"By all means," Brahms said. "And then, Geordi, you can cook me that dinner you promised."

La Forge grinned, and pressed his communicator.

"Commander Riker, we've completed the simulations. We should be able to begin the slingshot procedure when we reach Sirius."

"Excellent work Geordi. Report to the bridge in two hours time then. Riker out."

"See you then, Commander. La Forge out."

"Well, Geordi – what about that meal you promised me?" Brahms said, giving him a coquettish smile.

He turned to the young woman on the other side of the console, and grinned.

"I have an idea. Why eat in my quarters, when…. Computer! End program La Forge Beta Six and run program, uh, program La Forge Three-One."

The mockup of the engineering bridge vanished, to be replaced by a tropical beach scene. La Forge and Brahms found themselves on the terrace of an elegant resort, filled with people of all species. Beside them was a table set for two, with a small brazier in the centre.

"Oh Geordi – the Astra Resort on Risa! How did you know that was where the Daystrom Conference is going to be held?"

"Pure guesswork," La Forge grinned. "Well, that, and I asked the Daystrom Institute. Hold it one moment. Be right back! Computer, exit!"

Brahms looked after La Forge as he hurried out of the Holodeck, unable to keep a smile off her face. He was back in a few moments, carrying a large box.

"Voila! Two fresh-caught Alaskan crayfish!"

"Are – are they real?" Brahms said, looking inside the box very briefly.

"Absolutely!" Geordi said with relish. "Commander Riker's grandfather sent over enough for the entire senior staff the moment he heard the Enterprise was in the system. Take a look at these babies…" he trailed off, taking a look at the feebly-moving creatures inside the chilled box.

"Yes, they do seem…rather fresh," Brahms admitted, turning a little pale. "Uh…how are we going to eat them?"

"Fried with butter and garlic – simple, but good. Don't want to overdo the sauces. Let the full flavour come through," Geordi said cheerfully.

"Are – they still alive?" Brahms asked, a slight catch in her voice.

"Um, I think so," Geordi said. He looked in the box again, seeing the feelers moving sluggishly. He looked back at Brahms, then at the crayfish. "I must admit, I wasn't quite expecting them to be this fresh…."

"No, nor was I," Brahms said. "How are you going to…you know, kill them…?"

Geordi looked at her, then back at the two crayfish. There was a long silence. He looked at Brahms again, who was still somewhat greenish, then back in the box.

"Uh, Leah," he began nervously, "how about pasta with garlic-butter sauce instead?"

"Much better," Brahms said firmly, and La Forge put the lid back on the box with an audible sigh of relief.

"I think these two should go back to Alaska," he said quietly. "Computer! Two plates of Funghini alla Griglia, please!"

* * *

"Ayla," Picard said seriously, "I do not know what to think of your dreams. Or your visions. You have told me some remarkable things, and I am having difficulty assimilating them. They sound…beyond anything I would have expected. I need to discuss this with Data first."

"Will you also want to talk with Zelandoni?" Ayla asked, somewhat nervously. She didn't know if she wanted the spiritual leader of the Ninth Cave to know everything she had just told Picard. But to her relief, Picard shook his head.

"No, I don't think so. While I am sure she is a wise and insightful person, she simply doesn't possess the specialised knowledge that my friend Data does," he said.

Ayla looked at Picard carefully, wondering what the real reason for his reticence was. He avoided her gaze, and instead carefully examined the flute.

"These people you lived with," Ayla began slowly, "they were real to you, weren't they?"

"As real as anyone I see around me today," Picard said. "But I know it was all an illusion, yet not. It was real, but not for me."

"And they have all gone, haven't they?" Ayla asked. "The people in your vision, they have gone. Just like the people in my visions. Creb, and Iza – their memories live in me, my memories of the Clan, but they knew – Creb knew – that they were dying. And you say that where you live, there are none?"

"None at all," Picard said. "I have never even seen one. Why they vanished is one of our great mysteries."

Ayla looked at his profile as he started down at the bone instrument. Any doubts she had had about telling him of her visions were erased when she had seen his reaction to her childhood. She had told him all about Creb of course, and Iza and Brun, but instead of being repulsed that she was raised by the Clan, he was fascinated. He had shown more interest in them and their ways than even Jondalar, who had slowly grown to respect them, but still, Ayla knew, was not fully accepting. But there was not a trace of disgust on Picard's face when she told him how Iza had taken her in, how she had been taught by the crippled and half-blind Mog-Ur. Instead there was wondering, and again the feeling of deep sadness and unpassable gulfs.

"Why have you come here, Jean-Luc," she asked eventually. "Have you been sent to test me, to help me overcome my visions?"

The older man looked at her for a time, and shook his head. "As much as we might like to think the universe is arranged for our benefit, Ayla, it is not. We are less to it than the fleas on a dog – a wolf."

Picard looked at the young woman beside him, still thinking. Her visions had sounded fantastical, almost beyond belief, but he had seen far stranger things before, and was hesitant to dismiss them outright. The concern over her people – the Neanderthals, and Picard marvelled at how they had brought her up as one of them, and at the revelations concerning their memories and brains she had offered – was obvious: such a people would realise how they were gradually losing ground to the newcomers, and even if their concept of the future was not as developed as the Cro-Magnons, and their ability to adapt much less, the wisest of them would have some understanding. No, it was the story of her experimentation with the root-based drug in the cave ceremony that disturbed Picard: such far-reaching ancestral memory went against everything the Federation knew about the brain and memory. And worse yet was the part where Ayla had left Creb behind and seen the future: landscapes, laid out not with the randomness of nature, but in regular patterns. Boxlike structures that reared up from the earth, and long ribbons of stone, along which strange animals crawled at great speeds; huge birds that flew without flapping their wings. Then more scenes, so strange she couldn't comprehend them. She had described them as best she could, but her vocabulary was too limited, her experience too confined. But Picard recognised her descriptions, knew what those scenes were, and it disturbed him greatly. How was it possible for her to see such scenes? There was only one explanation he could think of, and he found it profoundly unsettling.

* * *

"Commander, we're ready for the sun-dive," La Forge said. On the viewscreen, the white dwarf star of Sirius B was glowing brightly.

"Is Dr Brahms ready in Engineering?" Riker asked.

"Brahms here, Commander. Ready for your order," came her voice from the speakers.

Riker looked at the screen, at the blinding white furnace that awaited them. He had been taken over the simulations a dozen times the previous evening, but there was still a deep pit of fear in his stomach. His only consolation was that if anything went wrong, they'd be dead quite literally before they even knew it. Was he dooming the entire crew by being pig-headed and stubborn? Couldn't Starfleet and the Temporal Investigations Unit from the 29th Century get them out?

"Will, this is why you're not in the captain's chair," he told himself. "Too afraid to risk the lives of the crew, too afraid to make decisions. I can do this. I must do this. It will work. I have the finest minds in Starfleet working it out; I have the finest crew in the galaxy ready to carry it out. All they need is a leader. Come on Will – you can do this. You can do it. Make it so…."

He sat down in the captain's chair, and said just one word: "Engage."

Instantly the massively powerful warp engines of the huge starship surged into life, sending their mysterious energies into the warp nacelles, forming the nested warp shells that powered all Federation faster-than-light craft. The Enterprise gathered speed exponentially, hurling itself towards the star ahead.

"Warp nine-point-nine," La Forge read out. "Now entering red zone. Engine overload in five minutes."

"Come on," Riker muttered to himself as Sirius B loomed ever-larger on the screen. "How long?" he called out.

"Forty seconds until breakaway," La Forge said. "Thirty…Twenty…Ten…."

"Red alert! All hands brace for impact!" Riker shouted. The bridge lights dimmed and the warning light strips began pulsating. Riker looked at the readouts in front of him.

"Three…two…one," La Forge called out.

"Now!" Riker shouted as the ship lurched sideways. He could hear muffled shrieks and groans from the hull as it was subjected to unimaginable pressures, trying to go in four directions at once. He gritted his teeth as the vibrations increased, and the view out of the screen blurred and narrowed, forming a tunnel where they could see both ahead of them and behind them at the same time. Space was warping, twisting, pulled like so much taffy at a county fair as the ship's engines dug a hole through the very fabric of existence.

"Time!" Riker yelled.

"Two minutes until engine shutdown!"

Riker could hear La Forge's voice as if from the bottom of a well. He glanced over at his Chief Engineer, whose image was blurry, distorted by the minute leakage into the ship of the tremendous energies outside.

"Commander, we're ten millennia into the past!"

"How's our status?" Riker had to shout to be heard above the din of the engines on maximum overload and the ship at its design limits.

"Green across the board! Structural integrity field loss on desks twelve to fourteen – within tolerances."

Riker gritted his teeth as the shaking intensified.

"Twenty thousand! Commander, the engines are overheating!"

"How much longer?"

"I'll have to shut down in thirty seconds or we'll lose the warp core!"

"Keep it together, Geordi! Come on, old girl, fly!"

The tunnel ahead of them narrowed even further, and suddenly a console erupted in sparks.

"We've lost the rear lateral phaser array!" Worf called out.

"How much longer?"

"Five thousand years…. Three thousand years…"

"Stand by for full shutdown!"

"Two…one…five centuries…one… Commander, now!"

"Brace for impact! Full reverse engines!" Riker shouted.

"Engines on full reverse sir!"

The tunnel ahead suddenly collapsed in a blinding blaze of white light as the Enterprise's warp engines were suddenly slammed into reverse. The entire ship shook violently, and La Forge and Worf, standing at the rear of the bridge, were thrown to the ground. Several other consoles exploded, and the air was filled with the acrid smell of ozone and burning plasteel. Gradually the shaking stopped, and Riker's head began to clear. He looked around, and took a deep breath.

"Casualty report!"

"Three broken bones, several reports of minor injuries," came Crusher's voice. "Try not to do this too often, Commander."

With his primary responsibility taken care of, Riker turned to his Chief Engineer.  
"Well, La Forge. Where—I mean _when_ are we?"

"Just a moment, commander. We need to check the starfields. Here we go…." His face split into a huge grin. "We made it Commander! Welcome to stardate negative 32,012,920!"

"Incredible! The day after the Captain and Commander Data arrived! Well done Geordi. Very impressive indeed."

"Don't thank me, Commander. It was Dr Brahms who did the fine-tuning. If it was up to me, we'd probably have arrived in the Renaissance."

"Far too modest, Geordi," came Brahms' voice through the intercom. "Commander Riker, we need to power down the entire warp core and replace one of the dilithium crystals before we can head to Earth. I also want to run some tests to make sure the engines survived. We have to repair the rest of the damage too, but that's minor."

"How long will that all take?"

"A few hours," she said. "Then we can head for Earth."

"That will take a couple of days," La Forge added. "And then we have to find them."

"How?" Troi asked. "It's a big planet."

"We would be able to find their shuttle very easily," Worf said confidently. "This is not a problem."

"Exactly," Riker added. "Geordi, take the Enterprise out to one AU from Sirius. Then you have permission to take the engines offline for six hours. After that I want to head to Earth. I don't want to leave the captain and Commander Data in the Ice Age a moment longer than I have to."

* * *

"Captain." Data came up the bank to them at an unhurried pace. "Might I have a word with you in private?"

"Of course, Commander," Picard replied. "Ayla, I need to discuss a few things with my companion."

"Could I discuss my visions more with you later?" Ayla asked, sensing that somehow, on some level, he could understand them. "Perhaps you and Data could share the last meal of the day with us, and then we can talk."

"Thank you for the offer. We would be glad to," Picard said, standing up. He wasn't sure what he could tell her, as he himself was far from understanding what she was seeing, and why. And he knew he must not place ideas in her head that were not there to begin with. It was a fine line he was walking, needing to extract as much about the visions as she knew, but without asking any potentially leading questions that would destroy the validity of her evidence.

Picard sighed, and followed Data out of the abri. The two Starfleet officers went down the riverbank a little way, past the small groups of people working.

"I gather you had to eject the warp core, Mr Data," he said when they were out of earshot.

"That is correct, captain. It was leaking chronometric radiation, and the anti-matter seals were badly damaged. I hope I did the correct thing, sir."

"You did, Mr Data. You merely caused a slight bit of confusion when a second sun briefly shone over Ice Age France."

"I should have transported the warp core farther," Data said, his face modulating into a carefully-calculated crestfallen expression that he knew would be appropriate.

"No harm done," Picard said. "After all, comets and meteors produce similar effects, and these people have lived with that. What did you manage to salvage from the shuttle?"

Data took out the bag and opened it. Picard rummaged through it quickly, then passed it back to Data.

"That should help. The sub-space radio in particular should come in useful if the Enterprise manages to get here."

"You think there will be a problem, sir?"

"It's a huge jump," Picard said seriously. "Far bigger than anything ever done before. But even if the Enterprise can't make it, Starfleet has a temporal displacement drive on loan from the Department of Temporal Investigations in the 29th century that should be able to reach us. Although I have no idea when: if they haven't rescued us by now then either they're having problems, or…"

"Or else what, sir?"

"Or else Admiral Necheyav is going to make good on her threat to assign me long-term shore leave, Mr Data," Picard finished. He looked around, and gave a gallic shrug. "There are worse places to spend a holiday, however."

"Indeed sir," Data said. "At least here you will not be roped into a dangerous mission by Vash to find some long-lost artefact."

"No indeed," Picard agreed. "That was probably not the best captain's holiday ever, at least from Dr Crusher's point of view. It wasn't exactly restful, after all."

"Jean-Luc!"

Picard turned, seeing the tall figure of Jondalar striding towards them.

"Greetings, Jondalar," Picard said politely. "Data, close the bag and keep it out of sight," he added quietly.

"I thought you might like this," Jondalar said, coming up to them and holding out a leather-wrapped bundle. Picard took it with a slight bow. He carefully unwrapped it, then drew his breath in. Among the folds of the soft leather was nestled a small slim blade of flint so dark it was almost pure black. He picked it up, the sun scintillating off the ridges and making the translucent edges glow.

"It's incredible," Picard breathed. "But I have nothing to give you in return."

"Just tell your people about us," Jondalar grinned. "We're always interested in finding new groups to trade with, meeting new peoples."

"As are we," Picard said. "You could say that is our mission."

"I thought you were here to see the caves of Doni's Deep?" Jondalar asked, confused.

"We are," Picard said. "But that is a personal interest for me, alone. However as a representative of my people, we are always looking for new encounters, new friends, as we have found in you and the people of the Ninth Cave."

"Journeys and encounters with other peoples can bring great joy, and great sadness," Jondalar said. "On my own I gained a mate but lost a brother."

"I share your pain," Picard agreed sadly. It was only recently he had made peace with his own brother, and the thought of losing him was not something he wanted to dwell on. And he was still not sure how Ayla had managed to call off a full-grown cave lion, even if it was one she had raised from a cub. Perhaps, he thought, they were like cheetahs, the only big cat that could be tamed easily. "However, you gained more than you realise. You gained knowledge of other lands, other peoples. That knowledge is something we ourselves seek. Knowledge brings understanding of the mysteries of life," he finished, looking at the way the sunlight sparkled off his blade. "This will allow me to always remember you and your people. But for how long will you remember me and mine?"

Jondalar looked at the short man with a puzzled air. Why such introspection? He didn't really expect such a reaction. It was a fine blade, to be sure, but nothing that special. Wymez or Dalanar could make something much more impressive. He shrugged, and put the matter out of his mind. He knew that the ways of Those Who Served were often beyond his understanding. Wandering off, he soon put the questions about the visitors out of his mind.

"Captain," Data said when Jondalar had gone. "I would like your permission to set up the sub-space radio. It may help any rescue mission locate us."

"I'm not sure, Data," Picard mused. He looked at the flashing lights on the device, and ran a hand over his scalp. "Not in the cave – it would be too easily found. How are radiation levels around the shuttle?"

"With the warp core ejected, they are within normal parameters," Data said.

"Perhaps you had better leave the sub-space radio in the shuttle," Picard said slowly. "In fact," he added, "it might be better to leave our comm badges there as well. It would not do to have a disembodied voice suddenly speaking from our chests."

"I have brought these along," Data said, taking out a couple of small devices.

"Ah, subcutaneous implants," Picard said. "We used them when we had to associate with the bronze-age Mintakans. Good idea, Mr Data. With these any transmissions we intercept will not be heard outside our skulls."

"I will be able to tune my internal circuitry to act in the same way," Data stated. "I should also advise keeping our comm badges but setting them to mute," he added. "I can easily set up a relay from the sub-space radio in the shuttle to your implant."

"Make it so," Picard said, taking one of the implants as Data headed back to the shuttle. The vast bulk of the small device he held was the delivery mechanism – the implant itself was barely the size of a grain of rice. Holding it to just behind his ear, he pressed the button and felt a short sharp sting as, with a brief hiss, the implant was smoothly injected just underneath his skin.

"Jean-Luc." Ayla's voice interrupted him just as he was putting the delivery device in a fold of his garments. She was carrying a large bundle, out of which Picard could see some plants sticking out. "I was just going to see the horses. Would you be interested?"

"Horses? Of course," Picard said. His memories of their first encounter were somewhat hazy due to the painkillers, but he definitely remembered seeing her approach them on a horse. He had thought it perfectly natural at the time, but now he began to wonder. Horses, in the Palaeolithic? Weren't they not supposed to have been domesticated far later? Ten thousand years ago was what he had been taught, not thirty. Suddenly intensely curious, he eagerly followed the tall blonde woman as they made their way up the river and headed along a side stream until they came to a flat grassy area.

Ayla whistled, and soon Picard heard the sounds of two sets of galloping hooves. A pair of small stocky horses raced into view, and made a beeline for Ayla. She laughed and hugged them, particularly the lighter-shaded one. Opening her bundle, she took out some plants and grains, and began feeding the horses.

"This is Whinney," she explained, indicating the dun-yellow one and handing Picard a long leafy vegetable. "She loves this. Let her feed from your hand. She also loves the grain."

"Hello, Whinney," Picard said, gently rubbing the horse's neck. It was rather smaller than the thoroughbred Arabians he was used to; built for the cold steppes, it was barrel-chested and sturdy, and was already growing a shaggy winter coat.

"And this is Racer," Ayla added, indicating Jondalar's dark-brown stallion. She fed him too, the younger horse guzzling his treat down almost before she had it out of the bag. She was hiding it, but in truth she was amazed at Picard's reaction to the animals. She could tell by how he acted around them, how he scratched their necks and ears, how he talked gently to them, that not only was he not surprised by her having horses, but he obviously had his own.

"Would you like a ride?" she asked Picard after the plants and grain were all eaten, eyeing him carefully. She was not at all surprised to see excitement, not shock, on his face.

"Do you have saddles?" he asked. The word was unfamiliar to her, but she knew what he meant.

"I do not use one, though Jondalar does." She dug into the bundle she was carrying, and pulled out Racer's riding blanket. The brown stallion trotted up to her, recognising the smell, and eager for a run. He was anxious about the stranger, who did not smell familiar, but Ayla's relaxed attitude, and the stranger's expert and very generous scratching, reassured him that he was in no danger.

Ayla fixed Racer's leather blanket over him, and then leapt lightly onto the mare's back. Picard awkwardly mounted the stallion, and sat astride him. There was a crude rope halter and rein arrangement, and he took that in his hands. Ayla looked at him, wondering why he seemed so unfamiliar with the reins. Perhaps he too does not use a riding blanket, she wondered. But then why ask for one? Or was this "saddle" he mentioned something different? She knew it meant "seat on a horse," but perhaps it was not quite the same. But the look of exhilaration on Picard's face as he sat astride Racer drove all speculation out of her mind. Sometimes it was good to just run free, uncaring, with the wind in your hair. Urging Whinney forward, she headed up the river valley, Racer's hooves sounding just behind her as he followed his dam.

* * *

"Commander, we have restored warp drive," La Forge said, pushing the final locking pin into place in the dilithium chamber. "She's ready whenever you are."

"Excellent work, Geordi," Riker said up on the bridge. He turned to the conn. "Maximum warp."

"Heading, sir?"

"Earth." Riker settled himself down in the captain's chair as the starfield blurred and streaked.

"Commander, even at maximum warp it will still take two days to reach where Earth is now," Worf said. "That will mean we arrive three days after they did, at the earliest."

"I am well aware of that, Lieutenant," Riker said. "There is nothing we can do about that, however."

"We could attempt a slingshot around the sun to send us back a week," Worf suggested.

"I don't want to risk any more time jumps than I have to," Riker said.

"Besides," Geordi interjected from Main Engineering, "the minimum we could jump is about fifty years anyway. Perhaps we could jump back just over fifty and then jump forward the same amount minus two or three days, but it would be tricky."

"I only want to risk that if we find that something has happened to the captain or Commander Data," Riker said. "All they have to do is camp out in the shuttle for a few days – they should be fine."

"If you say so, Commander," Worf said, grunting the words. He looked out at the viewscreen, and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of his console. Two days. Space was big, even the relatively small area near Earth. Worf found himself wondering what the primitive Earth would be like. All he had known was the tamed and thoroughly domesticated Earth of the 24th century. While he had complete respect for the achievements of humans, his Klingon nature sometimes rebelled at their pacifist ways. But he knew that Earth before the Federation was anything but pacifist – in some ways it was almost as warlike as his own people. He decided it would be interesting to meet some of these early humans, and perhaps they could share stories of great battles they had been in. He stood proudly and watched the ever-changing patterns of light as the great ship flew on through the inky blackness of space, towards a tiny distant blue marble that one day would be known as Earth.

.

* * *

**NOTES**

I probably got some details about the horses wrong, especially as regards to Racer's setup. I couldn't find anything about reins, just references to guide ropes and halters. I think JMA should add comprehensive indexes to her next books...


	11. Time is the Fire

**11. Time is the Fire**

"That was a wonderful ride, thank you Ayla," Picard said as he dismounted Racer. An aptly-named animal, he thought. While nothing compared with the racehorses of his own time, which were the product of centuries of breeding, he was still capable of a remarkable turn of speed, and his rugged stamina would eventually enable his descendants to carry the Mongol hordes across Asia and almost into Europe. Accepting a large dried thistle from Ayla, Picard awkwardly curried the animal down. As he was doing so a smaller grey horse trotted up to them, neighing loudly.

"I'm sorry, Grey," Ayla said to the newcomer. "I shouldn't have forgotten you. You wanted to run with your mother, didn't you?" She gave the yearling a final affectionate rub and then turned back to Picard. "It is getting late. We should be returning to the Cave."

"Yes, I agree," Picard said. The chill of the late autumn air made his breath steam, and a sudden breeze chilled his face. He glanced back at the horses, who were grazing peacefully.

"What do you do with them in the winter?" he asked.

"We have a shelter for them," Ayla explained. "I had a similar one when I lived with the Mamutoi. We added a section to their earth-lodge."

"They do not live in caves?" Picard asked.

"No, the land is too flat. There are not many areas with caves nearby," Ayla said. "So they build long dwellings of mammoth bones and earth and hides, in which all the hearths can fit."

"Mammoth bones," Picard said slowly. He recalled reading about similar early houses, common in the sub-arctic tundra. "How close were you to the ice?" he asked.

"We went up there once," Ayla said. "To hunt mammoths. It was huge – a massive, towering wall of ice taller than any tree."

"I would have loved to have seen it," Picard said. "And to see a mammoth – a mammoth hunt," he added, covering up his momentary slip. But Ayla had noticed it, and it made her wonder more about this mysterious stranger.

Data came up to them as they neared the Ninth Cave's gaping mouth.

"Captain, did you enjoy your ride?"

"Indeed I did, Mr Data," Picard said. "The best ride in years." And it was true: he hadn't been on a real horse for a long time, and there was something lacking in holodeck simulations. The knowledge that underneath you was a real animal, the feeling of partnership, of working in tandem, could not be recreated with the illusions of photons and force-beams.

"Will you join us for the evening meal, Data?" Ayla asked.

Data gave a brief look at Picard, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

"I would be honoured," he said. "Although I have already eaten, I will join you and your mate."

"I regret we cannot provide any food for the meal," Picard said as they made their way back up to Ayla's hearth. "Perhaps we should have gone hunting instead of riding."

"No, we have enough," Ayla said. "You do not have to worry. And your company and conversation will be all that we require."

"Your generosity is accepted most gratefully," Picard said.

They passed into the small hut, and sat down. In a few moments Ayla had a fire going, and Jondalar, who had been playing with Jonayla, went into a back area and brought out a large leather-wrapped haunch of deer.

"We were saving this for a special occasion," he said, "and this is as special as any. Last night you were our guests. Tonight, I hope, you will share with us as friends."

"We are honoured you consider us so," Picard said. "Yes, I would very much like to be your friend."

Ayla busied herself with her herbs, and soon the smell of roasting venison filled the small room. The four of them sat in contended silence for the most part as the meat cooked. Picard found himself drawn to the flames, watching them leap and flicker, the wood hissing and snapping beneath it, striving to reach the flesh suspended above them and never quite making it. He had sat around fires before, even campfires out in the wilderness, but this was different. This was no affectation of primitive living: this was the reality that governed tens of millennia of human existence. The quest for fire, the first step towards mastery of the environment, was one of the most significant in history. One of the four elements in classical Greek mythology, or one of the five of Chinese, the ancients considered fire one of the fundamental building-blocks of the cosmos. For some eight hundred thousand years of human history, fire had been vital to the lives of men and women. Throughout the ages, it had been seen as a manifestation of spiritual or supernatural forces. An item so valuable that it had to be stolen from the gods, who were angered at its loss, for it enabled men to become equal to the deities, shake off their power. And lead to their overthrow.

In his artificial cocoon of technology, driven by forces vastly more powerful and more dangerous than the simple chemical combustion of flame, it was all too easy, Picard reflected, to think of fire as a quaint relic, an item of decoration with no practical value. Perhaps it was like the leather-bound books he kept in his ready room: there was something far more satisfying about reading physical words, printed on a real page, than as ephemeral photons on a computer screen. This was real. This was fire, as it was meant to be.

Ayla watched Picard closely as she stirred a large skin pot of soup. He seemed mesmerised by the flames, and there was a look of regret on his face. No, not regret, she decided. Something else. A remote sadness that she could not explain. A sense of loss, though she had no idea what it was regarding.

"Woman, I am just about ready for some meat," Jondalar said, interrupting her thoughts. "Pass me the knife."

Ayla handed him a slim flint blade and he carved off a strip of meat, the juice dripping down into the fire where it sizzled and smoked. Holding the meat in a flat wooden platter, he greedily wolfed it down. Ayla took the knife from him, and offered her guests some, and then served the soup.

When they had finished the meal, she asked Jondalar to go and give the scraps to Wolf.

"Data, would you like to meet the wolf," the blond man asked as he stood up. "Jean-Luc has already met him, but you have not."

"I would be most interested," Data said, rising smoothly to his feet.

"Then come and meet Wolf," Jondalar said, holding the door open.

"With your permission, captain," Data said. Picard nodded.

"Go ahead. Take your time."

"Thank you sir," the android said, and the two of them slipped out into the darkness.

When they had left, Ayla turned to the older man.

"I have told you of my visions," she said. "Would you be able to tell me now what they mean?"

"Uh, I'll see what I can do," Picard said cautiously. "Can you wait until Data returns? I would like to get his opinion as well."

"Of course," Ayla said, glad he was taking a serious interest. She sat back quietly, fiddling with her amulet, in a sort of absent-minded plea to her totem to help her with Picard that she was barely conscious of making. In a few moments the door opened again, and Data and Jondalar stepped in, with Wolf in tow.

"Good evening, captain," Data said. "Wolf is a fine animal. Ayla was remarkable in being able to tame him so well."

"Ayla is remarkable in many ways," Jondalar said. "Your friend Data is also rather remarkable. He seemed to know just how to scratch Wolf in the right spots. Yet he says he has never seen a wolf this close before."

"Perhaps he just has a way with animals," Picard said. "He has an animal companion of his own, Spot."

"Data has an animal friend as well?" Ayla asked, surprised.

"Yes," Picard replied. "Not a wolf though – something much smaller."

"What?"

"Uh… an animal like Baby, your lion, but much much smaller."

"I have never seen anything like that," Ayla said. "You do not mean a baby lion?"

"No, just a smaller one. About this size," Picard said, indicating with his hands appropriately.

"That is so small!" Ayla gasped, unable to believe her eyes. "I would love to meet one! Where can you find such animals?"

"Far away from here, unfortunately," Picard said. The wild desert cats that were the distant ancestors of Spot were found in northern Africa, and would not be tamed for another twenty millennia. Or at least that was the theory – but then the same theories held that Ayla should not have tamed a wolf and a horse either, so Picard was forced to wonder if there weren't perhaps people at this time who had, in isolated and widely-separated incidents, tamed cats and welcomed them to their hearths and homes. "That reminds me," he added. "Have you ever seen the lions with the large front teeth?"

"The dirk-toothed tigers? Once, when I lived in my valley with Jondalar, before we met the Mamutoi. There was a big fire on the grasslands, and many animals died. I went to gather their meat, and I was not alone."

"Did he – were you attacked?"

Ayla shook her head. "I think he wanted to. But I drove him away with my sling. A stone or two on the nose made him change his mind. There was enough for everyone, anyway."

"Smilodon," Picard breathed. "Or the local equivalent. I've only seen their skeletons. A real sabre-toothed tiger – what a sight."

"They are not common around here I think," Ayla said. "Jondalar told me he thought they were only legends. But I saw one. They are real."

"Oh, very real," Picard agreed. "The long sabres of Smilodon are designed to slice through the main blood vessels in the neck and close off the windpipe in one bite." He demonstrated with his fingers and a bone. "They just rip out the entire windpipe, and the animal dies. Very efficient."

"I thought you'd never seen one," Ayla said, puzzled.

"No, but I-I have heard that is how they hunted," Picard said.

"You must hear many stories of other lands," Ayla said. Picard laughed.

"That is true, definitely."

"Could you tell us some?" Jondalar asked, leaning forward eagerly, one arm around the wolf.

"Not right now, Jondalar. There is something else I want to ask Jean-Luc right now, as he is One Who Serves. I want to ask him about my visions."

"Perhaps you could repeat them first so that Data can hear them as well," Picard said.

"I would be honoured to hear them," Data said smoothly, his face attentive.

"Perhaps some of Marthona's wine while we listen," Jondalar said, pulling out a bladder made from the stomach of a deer. He pulled out the wooden stopper, and poured four generous measures out into horn mugs. Picard took the proffered drink, and inhaled the bouquet with a practised nose. His own family had been making wine not too far from here for generations, and he was eager to try this Palaeolithic vintage. The nose was sharp and rather tannic – to be expected, he realised. They didn't have oak barrels to slowly mature the wine in, and this was probably rather young as well. He took a sip, and barely managed to keep from making a face. It was unpleasantly acidic, with a raw burning sensation and a strong taste of grapes. He put the rest of the wine gently down, and turned his attention to Ayla.

Somewhat hesitantly at first, but with growing confidence, the young blonde woman recited the all-too-familiar pattern of the visions she had been seeing since that fateful night in the cave after drinking the sacred Root mixture. When she finished, there was a long silence. Ayla sat back on her heels and looked at Picard, who, after having given the wine another few sips, was wiping his mouth carefully with a thin strip of absorbent leather and not looking at her.

"Jean-Luc? Can you tell me about my visions, what they mean? Why I have them." she asked him eventually, sensing his reluctance, but unsure of the reason for it.

"I warn you, Ayla," Picard said. "I do not know how much I can tell you about them. I am not an expert in this area."

"But they are – they are about the future, are they not?"

"From what you have told me – I honestly do not know. I do not know how you can have these visions, how you have seen these things."

"But you must have some idea," she pressed him. "I know you recognised my visions. You know what I saw," she said. "I was in the deep past, then growing along with the Clan, and then – somehow – I shot past them, into the future. Why can you not tell me more? Is this a test? Do I need to prove myself worthy to hear your wisdom?"

Picard made a slight grimace, and Ayla felt a slight rise of annoyance at his reluctance. He clearly knew more than he was telling her, and she wanted to know what – and why he wouldn't tell her. Did he need to test her more? Was that it? She decided to ask him as much, straight out.

"Please believe me, Ayla," Picard said. "I am not trying to test you. But I do not know how much I can tell you – it could be dangerous for you to know too much."

"Dangerous?" Her eyes flashed. "In what way?"

"What you are now, what you have – it could all be changed. Your future could vanish, and you would go the way of the Old Ones, the ones you call The Clan."

"How can you know this?" she demanded. "Have you seen the future?"

"I've said too much," Picard said. "I'm sorry, Ayla, but I cannot risk telling you any more at this stage. When we find out the reasons for your visions, perhaps I will be able to tell you some more."

"You've seen the future," Ayla said, suddenly understanding. One glance at his face confirmed her suspicions. He was good, but she was better – she knew to look for signs so small that most people were not even aware they made them. "You've seen it," she repeated slowly. "You've had the visions as well, only you understand them – that must be it," she finished.

Picard said nothing. He only sat there, biting his lip and looking at her sadly.

"And the future is bad – that's the reason you won't tell me, isn't it? The Clan vanish – I know that; it's what I learnt from Creb. But there must be something else. Something…." Struck by a sudden horrible premonition, she looked at Picard carefully as she asked her next question. "Am I going to die? Do you know when I will die?"

To her relief, he shook his head. "I'm glad to say I have no idea when you will die. You will die of course – we all die, in the end – but I have no idea when."

She could tell he was telling the truth, and relaxed somewhat. But it still troubled her. He clearly knew something about the future, and wasn't able to tell her. Why? Did it concern her? Her – her daughter?

"Jean-Luc, if – if you know anything about what will happen to Jonayla…" she began, but Picard stopped her.

"Ayla, please trust me when I say I know nothing about what will happen to you or your children. I hope you all live long and fruitful lives, but I have no way to tell. I cannot tell your future, not for even a day."

"Then what is it?" she demanded. "I know you have a fear of the future – not just of telling me about my visions, but about the future itself. Something bad will happen – your face shows it. I know it!"

Ayla stood up and stalked out of the hut. She felt incredibly frustrated, and what was even more annoying was that she could tell that Picard wanted to tell her, but was unable for whatever reasons his own people had forced on him. _What could be so secret_, she asked herself. She swayed, feeling slightly dizzy, and put a hand to her forehead. _No sense in getting angry over what you cannot control, she tried to tell herself. He wants me to know, I can feel it. I just have to find out why exactly he cannot tell me – what I must do to be allowed to know_. She headed outside, and looked up at the stars, the heath-fires of the ancestors blazing in the heavens for all eternity, and took a deep breath.

From the doorway of the hut, Picard watched her, wishing he could tell her more. But until he knew more about what was causing her visions, he dared not risk a gross violation of the Prime Directive. A slight noise made him turn. It was Data, Jondalar behind her.

"Don't worry about Ayla," the blond giant said. "She knows you do not mean for her to suffer. I am sure you have your reasons why you cannot tell her more."

"We do," Picard said sadly. "And there is nothing I can do about them now. Perhaps when Data and I have discussed them, we might be able to say more. But to speak now, with unfounded guesses, would be worse than saying nothing. We have to know why she is having these visions before we can interpret them properly. I am sorry Ayla has to go through this, but it is better this way. We have learned from our mistakes that it must be this way," Picard added distantly, looking out at Ayla's silhouetted figure. The moon was nearly full, and her hair shone silver in its light. He sighed, and turned to Jondalar. "We should be getting to bed, I think. Thank you for your most generous hospitality. I hope to repay it someday soon."

"Don't worry about it," the tall man said, slapping Picard on the shoulder. "We all share what we have. From each according to his ability, and to each according to his need. We shall see you in the morning."

"Good night, then," Picard said as the tall man moved off towards his mate.

Picard turned to Data as the two Starfleet officers headed towards the Visitors' Lodge.

"I wish I could tell her more," Picard said, the frustration evident in his voice. "She deserves to know that she is not disturbed, or seeing things that mean nothing."

"Have you not said yourself, sir, that the Prime Directive is not just a set of rules; it is a philosophy, and a very correct one. History has proven again and again that whenever mankind interferes with a less developed civilization, no matter how well intentioned that interference may be, the results are invariably disastrous."

"I know, Mr Data. The Prime Directive." He pushed open the door to the Visitors' Lodge and sat down heavily on a sleeping bench. "Starfleet is very strict: 'No identification of self or mission. No interference with the social development of said planet. No references to space, other worlds, or advanced civilizations...' But I don't think it's that simple here, Data."

Picard removed his leather clothing, and, clad in his Starfleet uniform, lay back on the furs. It was a cold night, and he was glad someone had been kind enough to light a fire in the hearth. He was also glad that the specially-treated uniform material was essentially self-cleaning, absorbing sweat and body odours from the wearer and enabling it to be worn for extensive periods of time in comfort. He rather doubted they had hot water showers here, and did not fancy the idea of bathing in cold water. These people lacked many things that he took for granted, and it was easy to fall into the trap of feeling guilty for the luxuries of his life. He needed to remind himself of the sacrifices and effort of generations of his ancestors that enabled him to enjoy clean clothes and warm baths.

"It's not that simple at all," Picard repeated, lying on his side, looking across at Data in the other sleeping area. While his second officer did not require sleep, and was perfectly able to stand motionless all night, Picard found it disturbing, and after the mission to find Spock on Romulus three years ago that they had undergone together, which involved several nights sharing a cabin in a cramped Klingon bird-of-prey, he had taken to asking Data to at least lie down, even if he didn't sleep. That way he felt less like he was being watched. "She's having visions of the future – not random hallucinations either, but, from what she described, remarkably accurate ones."

"Indeed sir," Data said. "I recognised several images. New York before the Eugenics War was unmistakable."

"And the last images?"

"Those are most interesting," Data said. "She lacks the vocabulary to describe them properly, but they sound very much like descriptions of pulsars, nebulae, and starships travelling at warp."

"Indeed," Picard said, his forehead lined with frustration. "But why? Why would a person from the ice age, thirty millennia before space travel, be having accurate visions of the 24th century, or even beyond?"

"Could this be a trick of Q's?" Data asked.

Picard shook his head. "I considered that. But it's not his style. There's no punchline. No sadistic humour. Q doesn't work like that – and it's too subtle for Q as well. Besides, after our last encounter, I don't think he's so interested in judging us any more."

"In that last encounter you saw visions of the future yourself," Data reminded him.

"No, not like this. Those were real, alternative timelines I played out. I'm still not sure if Q created them, or merely showed them to me."

"So you feel this is different?" Data asked.

"Definitely. It's not Q. Or rather, is very unlikely to be Q. But then what causes it? I need to find out what is causing these visions," Picard said. "Data, in the morning could you do a surreptitious sweep of the abri and see if you can detect any abnormalities?"

"Of course sir," the android replied. "Any particular abnormalities you wish me to focus on?"

"That's the trouble – I can't think of any," Picard said. "Perhaps when the Enterprise gets here we can run some more thorough tests."

"Indeed, captain," Data said.

"Yes, well. Nothing more we can do tonight, however. I'm going to get some sleep."

"Good night, sir," Data said. "I shall remain quiet, and not disturb you."

* * *

_Ayla felt herself floating in nothingness, falling and yet never landing. Strange shapes swam and coalesced in front of her eyes, and beams of light flashed across the starry skies of night. A great sun blazed in the void, tongues of flame licking at the darkness like a gigantic hearthfire. A face appeared in the stars, and she relaxed as the familiar image of the Mog-Ur slowly materialised before her, sad, looking at her with an indescribable sadness. But before she could reach him, he appeared to shake his head slowly, and, as she fell faster and faster, the outlines of Creb's face shimmered and coalesced into another face. A smooth bald skull, with a sloping forehead, a large nose and strong features. His eyes looked at her in welcome recognition, and Ayla gasped as his form took shape. She knew this face._

.

* * *

**NOTES:**

The type of horse that Ayla tamed is a Przewalski's horse, the tahki. The only true wild horse left, it has never been domesticated. At one stage there were only twelve horses left in the entire world, but they have now been reintroduced to the wild.

Picard's musings about fire do not yet, luckily, need to include the deaths of his brother and nephew, which happens the following year for him. Nevertheless, lacking any better idea, I have used the "Time is the fire in which we burn" quote for this chapter title.

Smilodon itself lived in North America, but sabre-toothed cats lived in Eurasia as well. They died out just 10,000 years ago. "Smilodon fatalis" is a name to run away from very fast….

"From each according to his ability, to each according to his need" is the famous Marxist slogan of course. Originally French, used by Louis Blanc back in 1851. It's also very much the maxim of the Federation in its post-scarcity economy, where each person does what they can, and is able to have what they need. How they are not all immensely fat couch potatoes doing nothing all day I have no idea.

And thanks to both the people that have bothered to follow this, and my few readers for reading - I know it's not an easy story to find, and I am sure many people would automatically consider crossing Star Trek and Earth's Children to be ridiculous, but this isn't some personal indulgence. There are strong thematic similarities between the two that I hope to get into even further, and an important lesson for Picard to learn at the end.


End file.
